


Inconsequential

by whisperwhisk



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Sburb game mechanics, SkaiaNet, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperwhisk/pseuds/whisperwhisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of families with connections to SkaiaNet and the Beta Guardians enters the game. Same-universe spinoff written to be accessible to non-Homestuck readers.</p><p>Elaine Timbal of New York, a senior developer at SkaiaNet, uses her inside knowledge of Sburb to protect her family - but in doing so reveals the sacrifices it took to build the game.</p><p>Martin Nunsworth of Oxford, UK, Bro Strider's old fencing master, seizes it as an opportunity to save his students. Meanwhile, his wife Maria reveals  chilling information about what's to come.</p><p>Alok Misra of Bangalore, India, a distribution contractor for SkaiaNet, finds Jade Harley's copy of the Sburb beta impossible to deliver. The extra copy represents a chance to escape for he and his family.</p><p>In Washington State, Dad Egbert's sisters prepare to enter the game, but a crippling injury and severe damage to Sburb's own infrastructure leave them scrambling.</p><p>As these four families prepare to enter, one thing becomes clearer and clearer: they are not welcome. Exactly four people were meant to play Sburb, and the game doesn't take kindly to stowaways...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I have seen proof that fate (Frag. 1)

            Gray light filtered through the car’s window and rain pelted the roof like bullets. Melanie Timbal nestled into the leather passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt. At six o’clock, a mere five hours from now, she would be out of this backwater and back in New York. New York proper. Upstate didn't count, not least the middle of the Adirondacks. Built over a waterfall, the house at the end of the drive was a blocky Frank Lloyd Wright ripoff with a small observatory built into the back, the rainy sky painting its white walls gray. The SkaiaNet laboratory where Mom and Ms. Lalonde worked, a gray box of a building with the green spirograph company logo painted on the side, loomed over the thick forest behind it. This was a national park. It was supposed to be illegal to build here, not that that mattered to Ms. Lalonde. The woman always made a show of ignoring rules, and her daughter Rose, whom Melanie had just spent the entire weekend trying to avoid, was no different.

            This little visit was nothing unusual. Mom had been taking Melanie up here since she was too young to know the difference between Rose Lalonde and a “friend” who is just a bit better than you at just about everything you can imagine, and knows it, and makes sure _you_ know it, and won’t ever stop reminding you. In fact, Melanie was still too young to know the difference between Rose Lalonde and that kind of “friend”. Because there was no difference between the two. That was the joke. Melanie giggled a bit to herself in her seat.

            At least it was Monday. At least she could finally leave.

            Melanie looked out the drenched window. Mom and Ms. Lalonde were still talking, obscured by sheets of rain. Mom was short and tan and had wavy black hair, and Ms. Lalonde was tall and blonde and pale as they come. They both wore the kind of tight-fitting white lab coats that Ms. Lalonde favored, the kind that showed off the bust and hips and that no real scientist would touch, mad or otherwise. Their scarves even matched. They huddled together under Ms. Lalonde’s black umbrella, held by Mom. Ms. Lalonde held in her black-gloved hand a martini, probably made by Mom. It was a going-away present, Melanie guessed, like they were pretending that a martini was a rare sight in this house, or that Ms. Lalonde’s black-gloved hand ever held anything _but_ a martini.

            Melanie opened the yellow car door and slammed it shut as loud as she could. Her mom glanced over just long enough to let Melanie know she’d caught the gesture, ignored it, and returned to her conversation.

            This was getting ridiculous. Mom and Mrs. Lalonde had been talking for almost ten minutes, their voices muffled by the rain. Whatever they were saying, the discussion had grown somber – and now it stopped. Ms. Lalonde rummaged in her purse one-handed, balancing the martini in the other. She drew a manila folder and held it out for Mom. Mom reached out her hand to grab it, then hesitated. For a moment, both women’s hands rested on the folder, and they stared at each other’s faces. The bleak expressions on their faces might have seemed significant if the exchange weren’t such an obvious trick to waste time.

            After a moment of silent staring, Mom took the envelopes and tucked them into her coat. She and Ms. Lalonde kissed each other’s cheeks, and she handed off the umbrella and walked toward the car. Finally. Soaked by rain, she strode on, her heels clicking on the driveway in a measured, confident pace.

            “Wait!” shouted Ms. Lalonde, her voice still slurred. She dropped her umbrella, her martini, and one of her two designer heels, and made a drunken run down the driveway toward Mom. She threw herself into Mom’s arms, and the two embraced in the rain so tight it looked like it hurt.

            After a long time, Mom released Ms. Lalonde. She turned on her heel, stiffened her back, and walked back to the car. “Goodbye, Roxy,” she called over her shoulder.

            “G’bye, Elaine,” called Ms. Lalonde.

            She opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat, drawing the folder out of her coat and setting it on the dash before tossing the soaking thing into the back seat.

            “Can we go now?” said Melanie.

            Mom looked down the driveway at Ms. Lalonde, who still stood out in the rain, watching them. “Hold this, dear,” she said, picking up the folder and handing it to Melanie. It was taped shut on the sides. The tab read _BETA: Timbal, E. A_. There was a red stamp on the folder that said _DO NOT OPEN BEFORE: 4-13-09_. That was today.

            Melanie hesitated, but took it. Dealing with Mom was like living on a script, and anything unexpected could result in disaster. By touch, Melanie could tell the folder contained a paperback booklet and a few hard, thin objects. “Why am I holding this?”

            “It’s important. Be very careful with it.”

            “Sure,” said Melanie in her most convincing voice.

            Mom turned toward her and clasped her hands, staring at her with dark brown eyes stained just the slightest bit pink. “Dear. Those envelopes contain a pair of very important discs. I need you to take care of them. Make sure they stay safe.”

            “Just like you took care of Dad’s vase?” That comment was just a bit too far off the script, and Melanie regretted it the moment it passed her lips.

            Mom jammed the car key into the ignition and gave it an aggressive twist. The car screeched in complaint and fell silent, and her hand jumped away, jittering, flustered. “Melanie, there is not time for this. Be quiet and _hold that folder_.” She turned the key as if it were made of spun glass and the car purred to life. Mom would sooner be party to global annihilation than damage that car. It was some vintage Chevrolet, painted bright yellow, from one of those periods in American history that car aficionados wanted back and everyone else was glad to be gone. It was bullshit.

            After five minutes of silent driving down a wooded country road, Melanie realized she was still holding the folder. “Why do we always have to go up there?” she said, breaking the silence.

            “We go up once every month and a half,” said Mom. “That is hardly ‘always’.”

            “Don’t dodge the question.”

            Mom kept her eyes on the road. She didn’t answer.

            “You’ve been taking me there for longer than I can remember, but you never even tell me why I have to go. Dad doesn’t have to go. Why should-”

            Mom swallowed. “Melanie, I-”

            “And why do I have to do all those tests every time we come here? Strapping me into a chair and making me solve puzzles. Electrodes on my head. It’s like something out of bad psych research from the 60s!”

            “Melanie!” Mom snapped.

            “What!” she snapped right back.

            Mom swallowed and composed herself. “ _Flowers for Algernon_ would make a better simile.”

            Melanie blinked. “Flowers for what?”

            Mom shook her head. “It…” she said, trying to phrase the sentence without using a contraction. Mom hated contractions. “It’s fiction,” she said, giving up.

            “Oh.” Perfect Rose Lalonde _loved_ fiction. Melanie had tried reading fiction at Rose’s suggestion. She’d tried for years. She’d started with the horror and fantasy Rose favored, then moved on to historical novels at her mom’s suggestion. She had then tried out classical American literature, classical British literature, science fiction, and children’s books. What a waste of time. Mom had then given her an even subtler suggestion that if she didn’t find anything beyond the real world to concern herself with, then she would never learn anything properly.

            “Though I suppose _Flowers for Algernon_ is not a great comparison either. Sweetie,” she said. “I am so sorry. There is so much I should have told you.”

            Melanie said nothing. Mom was a thinker, a planner, but she didn’t know how to deal with the unexpected. There was no script for this.

             “You were part of all this,” Mom continued. Her sodden hair covered her face. “The key to it all. And I should have prepared you. I should have filled you in on it. I just…I never made the plans.”

            Melanie said nothing again. Neither did Mom, though she swallowed hard. Judging by her silence, Mom was just as out of her depth as—

            _BOOM._

There was a flash of blinding white light and an enormous noise, a noise that pulsed through Melanie’s entire body. The entire car shook, and Melanie ducked down – or was knocked down. She tucked her head under her hands. From outside ahead the car, there was a screech, and then series of crashing noises – one, then another. The car swerved, left, right, and left again, tossing Melanie back and forth on her seat. An enormous buzzing noise filled her ears and everything between them. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. _Down_ changed from moment to moment with each sway of the car. The world spun, and her thoughts came slow and thick. Mom was saying something, shouting, but the words were garbled, as if underwater. She quivered and tried to rise, but the world tilted. She tried again, clawed her way up the seat back, but the car lurched forward, tilted, and jerked back, setting the world spinning. Melanie went back down.

            After a moment, Melanie exhaled. It seemed to right the world; she could move her body enough to sit up and look around. Her vision returned. She was panting. The windows on the right side of the car – Melanie’s side – were cracked in a web-like pattern, refracting gray light from the sky and red from the forest. She looked around. Behind them, one car had been struck by two others, blocking off two of the three lanes. Around them, most of the other cars had pulled to the side of the road and slowed to a stop, their passengers assessing damage, talking on phones, or going to help at the crash. Their own car had veered off to the left shoulder of the road. They were stopped. Next to her, Mom gripped the steering wheel, looking around wildly.

            “Melanie!” shouted Mom. Though the buzzing in Melanie’s head had mostly subsided, the first words that she understood still seemed distorted, far off. Mom’s hands still gripped the wheel, and she was panting as hard as Melanie was.

            “What…what was-” Melanie’s voice shook.

            “Are you hurt?” Mom was tense, controlled, though her voice seemed far away.

            “WHAT WAS-”

            “ _Are you hurt_?”

            “I think I…no, I’m fine, except my ears won’t-”

            Mom looked hard at her. “Where are we?” Her voice slipped into a practiced tone. She was using Melanie’s normal post-test exercises as a basic way to check for brain damage. Clever.

            The familiar logic of the tests grounded Melanie, pulling her back to the _now_. Normally she’d complain about them, but right now they were a comfort. “We’re…” she said, shaking her head to stabilize herself. “We’re on 87 South. Heading home from Lalonde’s. Um…parked on the shoulder.”

            “Good. Alphabet, backwards.”

            “Z, X, Y, W, V, U, T-”

            “Good enough. Basic arithmetic. Four processes. Double digits.”

            “Forty-eight plus eighteen is…uh…sixty-one.”

            “No. Again.”

            “Sixty…sixty-four. Sorry.” The gears of Melanie’s mind ground and shrieked, but they started moving again. “Seventy-two minus fifty-four is eighteen. Twelve times fifteen is one hundred eighty. Fifty-four divided by twenty-seven is two.”

            Mom sighed in relief. “Thank god for safety glass.”

            Melanie looked at the window, a spiderweb of cracked glass that still held together, and nodded. It was beautiful in a way. She tried not to think what might have happened if it hadn’t been there to protect her. “The other cars stopped to help. Shouldn’t we…”

            “No,” Mom said, bringing the car back onto the road. “It is starting. There is not much time. We need to get home and get things ready.”

            _It?_ “You _knew_ about this? This…whatever is happening?”

            “I _said_ I have made some mistakes, and I will explain if you just-”

            “You could have told me to get down! Or even taken a different road to avoid it!”

            “ _I didn’t know about this exact meteor!_ ” A contraction. She must have been serious.

            “Meteor.”Melanie blinked, and glanced out the fractured window, noting with numb clarity the forest fire back at the impact site. “ _This_ meteor. You said _this_ meteor!”

            “Melanie, the first thing you will need to understand is that working at SkaiaNet gave me a degree of insight into certain things-”

            “Like _meteors_?”

            “-and if we are going to live through this, I will need you to _shut up and listen to me_.”

            Melanie shut up and listened to her.

            “And…open that folder. Carefully.”

            Melanie tore the tape holding the folder closed, ripping it a bit. Inside were two square brown envelopes, each containing a disc. Each envelope bore a lime-green insignia. One had SkaiaNet’s round spirograph logo. The other had the image of a stylized house broken up into four separate blocks with a roof above, the top right block holding another, smaller block in its bottom left corner. The folder also contained a paperback booklet entitled _SBURB Beta: Instructions._

            No. This wasn’t right. _Sburb_ was an upcoming computer game, kind of like a co-op version of _The Sims_ from what the ads said. And the ads were all over the place, proclaiming that the open beta version was scheduled for release today, April 13th. She had no idea why Ms. Lalonde’s mysterious multinational tech company, a company with high-level security that hired scientists of all types from all around the world, would help develop a computer game, but given what she had just seen, she was willing to bear with Mom a little bit. “Why am I holding this?”

            “Because the world is going to end in a few hours,” said Mom. “And that game is the only way to survive it.”

 

             _13:05_


	2. exists, and we (Frag. 2)

             _Whiff._

            The strike wasn’t slow – that wasn’t the problem. Martin’s opponent used his youthful agility quite well, and his height helped. The boy’s moves were practiced and precise, but he hadn’t yet learned deception. Martin saw where his opponent’s lunge was going the moment he lifted his right front toe from the ground, and that moment’s forewarning was all he needed. He tilted his head to the left, and the younger man’s heavy rapier sailed just past his fencing mask.

            Martin’s gloved right hand snapped up and wrapped around the rapier’s edge, dulled for training. He pulled the blade down by his own belly and held it there, where his opponent could use it neither to strike nor to defend. With a snap of his left wrist, he brought his own Russian sabre up and around for a quick backhanded cut across his opponent’s masked face. With the rapier immobilized, the boy couldn’t parry, and Martin had only ever had one pupil quick enough to evade that strike. Of course, hitting that particular pupil was another matter entirely.

            “Point,” Martin said. His other twenty students, twelve to eighteen years old, stood in a ring around them to watch the day’s final bout. They stood in the middle of the fencing hall, a broad and functional room with white walls and hardwood floors. Mirrors lined one of the walls, and a broad window in the front opened to Hythe Bridge Street, lamp-lit in the gloom of dusk.

            The ring of twenty students around them gave gestures of acknowledgement. A few of them clapped lightly. They were used to seeing him trounce them, and moves like that no longer impressed them.

            The blade in Martin’s left hand jerked, and pain shot through his wrist. His hand snapped open, and his opponent twisted the blade, aiming its point right at Martin’s gut. “Make it a double,” the boy said, his Liverpool accent cheeky. Most of the onlookers clapped a bit more enthusiastically.

            That gave the boy four touches to Martin’s five. Martin chuckled, then rapped the young man on the top of the mask with his sabre. “Taking advantage of the master’s frailty, is it?”

            “Aye, sir,” he said, sweeping off his mask to reveal a head of thick, sandy hair and a pale face gleaming with sweat. “We all work with what God gives us, you said. Well, God done gave me a creaky old man to fight. Right blessing, it is.”

            Martin laughed, a low rumbling sound, and took off his own mask. “So you’ve learned something finally. Well done, Charlie.” Martin held both blade and mask in his right hand, and offered his left hand to shake. Charlie Baker was right-handed, and he had move his gear to the other hand to accept the shake. Martin always found small expressions of dominance like this helpful to keep the kids in line.

            “Thank you, sir,” said Charlie.

            Martin pulled Charlie close. “Might want to check that freight train of a lunge you’ve got,” he murmured. “It throws you right into the opponent’s centre guard. Lines you right up to get skewered.”

            Charlie nodded and walked away. The boy was too elated from his near draw with the master to think about it, but he’d come around. Good lad, that one.

            It was a shame he was about to die.

            “Attend!” barked Martin.

            The circle of students split, and all twenty-one moved to the front end of the classroom, arranging themselves in a double line before the front window. The clock above the window read eighteen-thirty, time for class to end. “You’ve all done well today. Especially on those pointwork drills,” Martin said, nodding to the practice dummies lined up at the side of the hall. Most looked a woodpecker’s holiday lodge. “You’ll have to start missing a bit more. Wouldn’t want me to need new targets, would we?” He brought his point to tickle the nose of Natalie Lowell, a short young lady in the front of the group with mousy hair. She almost didn’t flinch.

            The class repressed a laugh.

            “Though some of you,” he said, with a hard glance at Charlie Baker, “need to learn a bit of respect for the needs of your elders.” Charlie gave a smile that that stretched from ear to tear. “Of course, that’s more a task for your mums than it is for me.”

            The kids tried to stand at attention. They tried so hard. Jean Gaulois was murmuring to Nathan Sinclair, and in the back, Carol Donahue was picking something out of her hair.

            “Go on, then. Go home!” he said. “Live like there’s no tomorrow, or some nonsense like that.”

            “Sir!” they said, and broke. They swarmed over to their bags and began to change out of their gear, chatting the whole time.

            In his back pocket, Martin’s phone buzzed. He drew it and flipped it open. “Martin Nunsworth.”

            “Hey there, old man.” Martin knew the voice, that tenor with a slight Texas accent that only deepened the layers of irony.

            “Mr. Strider,” Martin said, quietly enough so the class wouldn’t hear.

            A few students heard, and they whispered to the rest of the group. In seconds, each one had fallen silent, and Martin felt the weight of forty-four adolescent eyes upon his back. The kids’ reaction was positively Pavlovian. They had heard the rumors about Strider. Rumors that he moved faster than the eye could follow, that his sword cleaved through other blades like paper, that he’d trounced the old man with a nothing but a puppet before he’d ever touched a sword.

            The kids thought the stories were hyperbole, and Martin wasn’t terribly inclined to correct them.

            “Did you get my package?” Strider said.

            “It arrived yesterday,” said Martin. “Marie’s been making sense of it.”

            “Good,” said Strider. He took a long pause. “Everything’s going down in five and a half hours. Worldwide. You think we’re ready for this?”

            Martin inched away from the cluster of listening students. “I don’t believe anybody’s ready for this,” he said. The students inched closer. “You and your brother are about as close as anyone could come to it. As for Marie and myself…I honestly couldn’t say.”

            “Yeah,” said Strider. His voice was impenetrable as always, but Martin knew him. Martin could tell wistfulness when he heard it. “Uh…is the lady there?”

            “No,” said Martin. “She’s been staying late down in Reading. She’s still working on that text they found.”

            “The one from the island?”

            “Yes,” said Martin. “The same.”

            “Huh,” he said, then paused. “Is it done?”

            “Nearly so. At least, that’s what she tells me.”

             Strider paused. “Say hi to her for me.”

            “I will,” said Martin. “I’ve just got to finish up my dealings with these little scamps first.”

            “You still teach?”

            “What is life without direction? Without legacy?” said Martin. “I teach because-”

            “Pops, I feel a speech coming on, and the time I got for that ain’t nil. Clock’s winding down, tick tock, and you got to be ready-”

            “Go and stuff it, you hypocrite. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some children to bid goodnight.” Martin turned to the class, moved the phone away from his face and called, “Will everybody bid Mr. Strider a fond farewell!”

            “Good evening, Mr. Strider,” the class. Their voice resembled a chorus in the same way a traffic jam resembled motor sport: it was technically the same activity, and any other remarks might be construed as disparaging.

            Strider laughed. “Sound like good kids to me. Damn shame about tonight.”

            Martin looked at the class. Every single student stared at him in unabashed awe. “It certainly is.”

            “Anyway, I gotta go prep. Catch you later, old man.”

            “I hope you do,” said Martin.

            Strider hung up.

            The class stood and stared. Martin shut his phone, and in the silent hall he almost heard the tiny sound echo. He put his phone back into his pocket. The class was still staring. “Well?”

            The class kept on staring.

            “Get on home, then,” he said. “You all have families, right?”

            “Not me, sir,” said Maggie North, a slight girl with curly black hair. “I stabbed my mam just this morning.”

            “Best get to burying her, then!” said Justin MacNair, a tan boy with a moustache. He nudged her with his elbow.

            “Oh, get out!” said Martin, setting the kids to packing up. Though it wouldn’t matter, he began to shut the studio down for the last time. It was rote, comforting. He collected the equipment and sorted it: blades, gloves, masks, anything else he’d lent out to one of the poorer students. Each went into the storeroom in the back, which he locked. As he sorted the gear, the students filed out, one by one. Lowell. Daniels. Sinclair. Gaulois. Bellini. He tried not to watch them on their way out. It wouldn’t do to have them suspicious. Like Strider had said, they were good kids. The best Martin could do for them at this point was to give them one last peaceful evening with their families. Ignorance, bliss, and all that.

            When Martin got out of the storeroom, Charlie Baker still stood by the door. “What are you still doing here?” he said.

            “Just wanted to thank you for the bout is all.”

            “You’ve already done that, but I suppose I won’t turn down appreciation,” said Martin, walking across the floor toward him. “You’re welcome. You did well.”

            “You said that before,” said Charlie. “But thanks again. Oh. Also-”

            “And here comes the flood.”

            “Nothing so big as that. My fam’s taking me up to York this weekend. Just thought you should know I won’t be making Thursday class.”

            “Thank you for telling me, Charlie.” He headed toward the door, and Charlie followed.

            “Oh, by the way, sir. Don’t mind my listening, but I heard you talking with Mr. Strider about getting ready for something. Is it…”

            Martin held the door open for the boy. “Just go spend some time with your family. Watch a film or something.”

            “…private. It’s private,” Charlie stammered. “Okay, I get that.” He moved through the door past Martin, out into the cloudy night and the lamp-lit streets of Oxford. “Good night, sir!”

            “Good night, Charlie,” said Martin. He gave the boy a halfhearted wave, and got an enthusiastic one in return. Then another. Then one more before Charlie finally turned the corner.

            “It has been wonderful,” said Martin to himself. He was quite certain the streetlamps hadn’t grown hazy. He was sure it was just his eyes. He gave them a bit of a wipe with his kerchief, which cleared things up nicely.

            Martin headed back inside and reached for the light switch by the door. Yes, they _were_ good kids. He would miss them quite a lot.

            He flipped the switch. The hall went dark.

            It was such a shame.

 

            _13:36 New York, 18:36 Oxford_


	3. are not (Frag. 3)

            The computer screen was the brightest light in the office, a half cup of cold coffee on the desk before it. Alok Misra stared at the SkyAir Distribution shipping register on the screen, a spreadsheet tens of thousands of cells long. It displayed the Bangalore-based company’s entire set of delivery schedules from April 7th, 2009 through April 14th, 2009. The deliveries went out to India, Australia, and every country between the two. Each row contained a serial number, a location, and information about the status of the delivery. There was only one product, a game. Most units had already been delivered.

            Alok’s eyelids drooped. It was 24:04 on April 14th, 17 seconds into the minute. Alok had been here since 10:07 on the 13th, with a few breaks for physical necessities. As he sat, the dim room seemed to grow darker. The screen faded to a dull gray, and the coffee cup listed to the side. Everything went black.

 

            Alok’s eyes snapped open. It was 24:06. The register had shifted. It updated with new information every five minutes, and it was Alok’s responsibility to keep an eye on it and address any problems as they occurred. Alok sat straight in his wheeled chair, wobbling. With a sharp breath, he willed his mind into focus, invoked Ganesha for whatever blessing of intellect was available at this time of night, and downed the coffee in a gulp. It was cold and foul, a shock to his senses. Just what he needed. He banished his fatigue and scanned the register. A few new rows signaled a complete delivery, and most incomplete deliveries had some sort of update. A few had new reports of progress or hang-ups, but most were just check-ins, signals that the delivery men were still awake. All had changed. All but the last one. The only one that mattered.

            “You keep the room too dark,” a voice said behind him. The lights snapped on, painfully bright. “Puts you to sleep.”

             Squinting, Alok looked around the room. It was the kind of cramped office typical for Bangalore: sleek enough to attract foreign investors, but cheap enough for India. He didn’t look at the voice, but nodded. It was his brother Chiranjivi, three years younger. Chiran for short. He was short and muscular, with a suit that mirrored the room. Sleek, at a bargain.

            “What, no protests?” said Chiran, his cheer doing little to hide his fatigue. “Am I not ‘disrupting your focus’?”

            Alok scanned the shipping register. “No.”

            With a sigh, Chiran padded across the room and knelt beside Alok’s chair. “How go the shipments?”

            “Poorly,” said Alok, scrolling down to the last row. “Order 0000-0-004 still hasn’t changed.” Most orders had a jumble of letters and digits, but this serial number was oddly tidy. Instead of a country code, it listed a set of coordinates. Instead the usual series of status reports in a mix of every language relevant to this part of the world, its “Delivery Status” column held a single word. _Pending_. In English. It hadn’t changed since SkaiaNet had sent the bulk distribution order on April 7 th at 6:13.

            The deadline was 6:13 this morning.

            Chiran took out the glasses he kept in his breast pocket and moved in for a better look. “Negative point nine-five-something latitude by negative seventeen-point-whatever longitude,” he said, his face poking up over the arm of Alok’s chair. “Where is that?”

            Alok opened a number of GPS maps, all from different sources, all set to the same location. “It’s in the Pacific Ocean,” he said. “No land there. Nothing for miles. I hired a scout pilot last Tuesday. He turned around thirty miles away. Said his sensors were spinning.”

            Chiran furrowed his brow. “What do they want us to do, drop it in the ocean?”

            “I’m not certain,” said Alok. He brought up a window with several satellite images of the area. “Here, examine these.”

            Chiran leaned in closer, then leaned back out again, squinting. He was farsighted, and needed new glasses. “They’re blurred at the spot,” he said. “All of them. Edited?”

            “If so, I’ve seen no signs of it,” said Alok. “The effect appears optical.”

            “Optical?”

            “It exists in the original photographs.”

            “A magical, hidden spot of sea,” said Chiran. He his head against the desk by Alok’s hand and closed his eyes. He’d been working parallel to Alok all day, calling warehouses, shippers, and the SkaiaNet offices in America. “I’ll make sure to tell the Americans that the delivery site for their most important package doesn’t exist,” he said. “I’ll just put that down in our quarterly review.”

            Alok and Chiran owned and operated SkyAir. Alok was SkyAir’s brain, coordinating deliveries, handling logistics, and ensuring forms and contracts were filled properly. Because SkyAir was a subsidiary of the American technology firm Skaia net, and shipped internationally, the paperwork was a nightmare. Alok normally had a multinational team of bureaucrats to help. Of course, Alok normally didn’t work at 24:08.

            If Alok was SkyAir’s brain, Chiran was its mouth. He arranged deals with transportation companies, connected with local salespeople, and most importantly kept the Americans happy. The Americans were not happy today,

            “I’m not certain why it bothers you so,” said Alok. “The Americans say this game will destroy the world. If what they say is true, their lawyers will be dead long before we submit our progress report. If not, we can sue them for engaging in a contract under false terms. America has laws for that kind of thing, I believe.”

            Chiran opened his eyes. His face was somber. He raised a finger and opened his mouth reverentially. Then he burst out laughing.

            Alok watched Chiran laugh for twelve seconds. He counted them.

            Chiran regained control of himself. “So you’ll be filling out those forms in that ‘afterlife’ of yours,” he said.  
            Alok slid back in his chair. He paused, thoughtful. “If there’s no Earth to go back to, can we still return after we die?”

            “I was joking,” said Chiran, standing up.

            “I wasn’t,” said Alok.

            “You were joking before.”

            “I stopped,” Alok said. “You’ve been talking to the Americans all week. Did you ask them why that delivery was so important?”

            Chiran sat down on Alok’s desk, perilously close to his mouse. “They said it’s ‘integral to the structure and function of the game’,” he said with a fake American accent. The accent was terrible, but Alok suspected that was the point.

            “Integral,” said Alok. “To the game SkaiaNet says will destroy the world.”  
            “Yes,” said Chiran.

            Alok felt himself blanch. He shifted in his chair a bit, then opened his mouth deliberately. “Does that mean we could-”

            Chiran leaned down toward Alok. “I know what you’re thinking, and no.”

            “What do-”

            “ _No._ ”

            Alok glared at Chiran. “What do you believe I am thinking?” he said, as if each word were a step upon a minefield.

            “You’re thinking that we’ve been a direct party to global annihilation,” said Chiran. “That we could sabotage SkaiaNet – to atone for our part, and to save the world.”

            Alok opened his mouth to deny Chiran’s claim, realized it was true, and closed his mouth.

            “It won’t work,” said Chiran. “The world _will_ to be destroyed. That’s what they say. The game is incidental. Meteors will start falling around six this morning. The game just tells players where and when. And it gives them a way out.”

            “It sounds as if you believe them,” said Alok. “A bit unlike you.”

            Alok tried not to give away what he was thinking, even though Chiran surely knew. SkaiaNet had on several occasions displayed an alarming ability to come up with information they had no logical way to access. In July of 2007, they were assigned to ship some neural probes from an Australian manufacturer, and a sudden storm had delayed the shipment by a week. When Chiran called up SkaiaNet to inform them of the delay, they had already known. In fact, when Alok reexamined their yearly shipping schedule, he noticed that they had already taken the storm into account. SkaiaNet almost never got anything wrong. Though Alok considered himself a skeptic, their record for predicting unknown factors made their unbelievable claims uncomfortably believable.

            “I _don’t_ believe them,” said Chiran. He rose from his place on Alok’s desk and grabbed him by the shoulders, his hands large and meaty. “But they paid us up front. It’s a good bet.”

            Alok nodded, shaking off Chiran’s grip. That _had_ been quite a bill. Alok had sent sixty percent back home to Nalani and Shafti. The remainder would pay his rent for a year.

            “Besides, if they’re right, there is nothing we can do,” Chiran said. “I figure, if a man can do nothing to stop the end of the world, he is obligated to at least turn a profit from it.”

            Alok nearly smiled.

            The register flickered. An update.

            Alok scrambled and slid his chair forward so fast he slammed his stomach against the sharp-cornered laminate desk, tilting the screen. The cursor had returned to the top of the register. Alok had programmed it to do so with each update, to force himself to read the entire thing each time. Right now it was a nuisance. Ignoring the pain and the off-kilter screen, Alok scrolled down to the bottom of the register. Order 0000-0-004.

            _Pending._

            Alok stared at the screen, using every bit of mental fortitude he had to keep himself from shaking. The single English word sat on his screen like a stain, stubborn and unmoving. That word hadn’t moved for an entire week. The package still sat in the SkyAir warehouse a few miles from the office, the only one left. Alok had tried to ship it all week, but there was nowhere to _send_ the thing. There were five hours and thirty-three minutes left before time was up, and the destination was not only unknown, but more than six miles out in the ocean. At this point, even if Alok had a place to send the package, it wouldn’t arrive on time.

            He had failed.

            Alok stared at the word. It was supposed to change. That word _had_ to change so Alok could send off the order to that mysterious spot in the Pacific. So the world could play this game. So the world could escape.

            _Escape_.

            The last copy of the game sat in the warehouse, just a few miles away.

            It could never arrive on time.

            Therefore, nobody was using it.

            Alok froze. Chiran’s breath was loud behind him. His own heartbeat pounded through his body. The idea he’d conjured was a treasure hot from a demon’s forge, a betrayal that burned in his mind.

            After all, it wasn’t like anyone _else_ was using _Sburb_ Beta Unit 0000-0-004. No harm done.

            “Chiran,” said Alok.

            “Yes?”

            “Could you do me a favor?”                    

            Nalani used to say that demons forged the most tempting of treasures.

 

            _13:37 New York, 18:37 Oxford, 24:17 Bangalore_


	4. its chosen. (Frag. 4)

            In the darkness, Valerie inhaled. The air smelled of pine and hemlock, fresh and earthy on the first dry day of spring, the sharp scent of decay below her mingling that of new life above. The breeze danced about her, strong enough to bat her tight red ponytail to and fro, but too feeble to steal her broad-brimmed park ranger’s hat. The sound of wingbeats – finches, by their size and tempo – burst from the ground beside her, rushing up and into the canopy above, an eager chorus on the way to whatever new task awaited them. To her left, upon the lake, a heron called a wistful song. The breeze swirled and intensified at her right, and she turned into it, clasping the brim of her hat and breathing even deeper, sucking it in until her lungs felt ready to burst. Spring. That time of year when new buds came out to play, when bears emerged from their grottos and the wind itself–

            _Thunk._

            –just dropped a pinecone on her head.

            Valerie opened her eyes and exhaled, slow and steady. Dusting her hat off, she looked around. The sun had cleared the crest of the mountains to the east and filtered through the canopy of evergreens onto the lakeshore. Out upon the lake, there was a small island, no more than forty feet across but still home to just a few trees. Still enough to bear life. From the trees just down the lakeshore to her left poked a small radio tower. The sun was high enough that it had completely escaped the umbra of the mountains’ shade, and was completely illuminated. It was almost eleven, by her watch. Time to go.

            Valerie walked toward the path back down to her truck. Away from the wind and the water and the birds, from the rocks and the trees. From life. If only she didn’t have to go back so soon! That line of thought was an obvious trap; she had things to do, and not much time to do them. But still she paused, turned, and closed her eyes for one last deep, long breath.

            Why were the insides of her eyelids so bright?

           

            In the darkness, Valerie tasted rotten hemlock.

            An enormous buzzing sound filled the world, drowning out birds, breeze, everything. Valerie listened for her breath, proof that she was still alive. She felt it rising quick and sharp in her chest, but she couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t _hear_ it. She should be able to hear her breath. Breath was proof of life, and to breathe – to feel her breath but not hear it – was wrong. Her heart beat faster, pounding through her ears, the quick beats of terror.

            Valerie focused on that, isolating it as proof that she still lived – an alternative to the sound of her breath. She blocked out everything else and counted to ten by heartbeats, slowing one by one as her mind became clearer.

            She moved her attention to the rest of her body. Her entire front felt like one enormous bruise. She tasted hemlock, bitter and foul – her face was on the ground, and the needles that made up the soil had wormed their way into her mouth. Waves of heat rolled over her back. Dirt filled her eyes. Her shoulders and back felt stiff, brittle. Her hat was gone. The yellow bandana she wore under it was still there. She noted each element separately, dividing them so they didn’t overwhelm her. At each one, she took a bit of satisfaction. Each sensation was a sign she could get up. A sign of life. She rubbed her eyes, clearing them of dirt, and looked around her.

            Valerie was legally blind. She didn’t need her glasses to know what she saw.

            A quarter of the way across the lake, the forest had been engulfed in a swimming red light. It reflected off the lake before her, giving her an odd double-image, doubled again by her own crossed eyes. Fire.

            Right at the site of the radio tower.

            That was unfortunate.

            Still on the ground, Valerie clapped her hands twice. _Clap-clap_. The sound split her skull like an axe through firewood, but at least she could hear. Good. She twisted her arms forward, shifting her body to push herself up off the ground. As she extended her forearm, her right shoulder exploded in pain that shot all the way up her neck and down her back. She cried out and collapsed, just managing not to fall on her wounded arm. Stars flashed in the edges of her vision. Her entire body tensed and she breathed in and out, pushing through the pain and refocusing herself. She knew this kind of pain. It was body’s polite request that she discontinue the activity that caused it, coupled with a stern threat if she were to ignore it. Valerie had learned about all types of injuries, mostly by receiving them, and viewed such a request as more of a guideline. Her shoulder was dislocated, probably with some other damage. She’d had worse. It was when the pain stopped that it was time to get worried. As far as Valerie was concerned, if the she could move, she could function. Andrea could make a more thorough analysis later.

            That didn’t mean moving was the best option at the moment. Pain was a sign of life, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant. Valerie reached around with her other hand and found that by some miracle, her radio was still secure in its holster. She pulled it out and turned it on purely by touch, knowing it would be quicker than trying to find her glasses.

            “This is Valerie Egbert!” she shouted. “I need any station on the line! Any station! Do you copy?”

            “Roger, Miss Egbert,” said a very impudent, very male voice on the other line. His name was Roger, and he had volunteered for radio duty just so he could make that pun. “This is Skykomish Station. What’s the business?”

            “I need a pickup at Nine Hour Lake. I’ve been-”

            “Where the fuck is that?” said Roger.

            “North of Preacher Mountain.”

            Most people, even park rangers, would have had to check a map. Roger just whistled. Either he had eidetic memory or a major thing for geography; Valerie could never tell. “That’s a bit of a hike. Do you want that that by limousine or corporate-”

            “I need Medevac!” Valerie said. The fire was creeping closer, a column of thick black smoke rising above it. “And a bucket plane.”

            For a short moment, Roger shut up. “Uh, wow…um. Give me just a sec.”

            “I’d really rather not!” It was no use; Roger had already dropped the radio. Rationally, Valerie knew that was a good thing, that Roger had put her on hold to arrange the pickup. But having someone to talk to was the best sign of life she’d had, and now it was gone. Now all she had to focus on was the pain and the sounds of the fire: its dull roar, the intermittent crack of splitting branches, the cries of fleeing animals. They crept closer by the moment, and sweat dripped from her forehead.

            It had rained almost continually this April, and the trees were wet. In summer the blaze would have already overtaken her, but through the wet timber it moved slowly enough that Valerie might be able to escape if she could walk. With a grunt, she twisted her legs, moving them underneath her without using her arms. Her back screamed, struggled against her every move, and she screamed too, planting the balls of her feet on the ground and _shoving_. With her back protesting, standing up was harder than a hundred squats with a forty-pound weight tied around her neck, but she did it. She lifted herself up, up, rose, and straightened her back. With her head straight up, she sucked in a hard breath through clenched teeth. She looked around to a world blurred without her glasses. Behind her was the fire, and before her a blurry spot of brown that looked reasonably like the trailhead. Her legs were nearly uninjured. She set to walking.

            A muscle twitch gave her just a moment’s warning before her back gave out.

            With the slight warning, she was able to direct her fall to the right, toward an unburnt tree at her side. She reached out to stop herself with her right arm; that collapsed too, she fell right, her dislocated shoulder slamming into the tree.

            Valerie’s world went white. For an endless moment she was a stone, a thoughtless stone in a blank white space. White, the color of physical pain, of agony so great it blocked out all other sensation. There was nothing but her and it. Nothing to separate her from it.

            And then, there was breath. The sound of her breath returned to her first, sharp and rough, gasping. Then came her other senses. She was still standing, leaning against the tree, tears and sweat mingling on her face. Something murmured at her side, far away. Her radio?

            Roger!

            “-heard you screaming! What happened? Talk to me, talk to me. Please talk to me Val, please pick up your-”

            “Roger,” she gasped. “Roger.”

            “Oh God thank you,” he said. “I’ve got a Medevac chopper heading for you, ETA ten minutes.”

            It was a good thing Roger was so desperate about this. Otherwise he wouldn’t have missed her stealing his joke. Valerie made a note that she’d have to remember to have a laugh about it with Andrea, in the event she survived long enough. “Oh goody. I get to fly.”

            “Yeah, they’re coming for you. Gonna lift you off like the fucking Wizard of Oz,” said Roger. “Just make sure they can see you. Won’t be easy, all that smoke.”

            “Got a flare gun.”

            “Remember the smoke? Spot a flare through it, I dare you. Try.” said Roger.

            “I’m working on it. I’m-” A blast of hot air and smoke blew her way, and she choked.

            “Um. How close is that fire?”

            “Shut,” wheezed Valerie. “Up.” She couldn’t tell too well with her eyes, but judging by the heat, it was awfully close. A minute more and Nicole might want to use this part of the forest as a new pastry oven.

            “Might want to get _away_ from the fire.”

            “Small flaw. In your plan. I can’t-” Valerie gave a heaving cough. “Can’t. Walk.”

            “Then crawl! It’ll keep you out of the smoke at least.”

            “Oh,” said Valerie. She probably should have thought of that. With a grunt of pain, she dropped to the ground, belly to the dirt. It was cooler down here, and much less smoky. She took a breath and steadied herself. The rocky lakeshore was just a few feet away. The reflection of the fire off the lake would probably be beautiful from this angle. If she had her glasses, and if it weren’t about to burn her to death.

            The lake!

            Valerie wanted to clap her palm over her forehead, but her aching shoulder had other ideas. She fastened her radio and began to army-crawl toward the lake. It wasn’t easy; her shoulders wouldn’t hold any weight, so she wobbled left and right, creeping over the soft earth toward the water inch by inch.

            “Valerie. You there?” said Roger.

            Valerie kept crawling through the dirt. It took everything she had, and she couldn’t spare the energy to reply.

            “Talk to me, Val,” ran Roger’s mouth over the radio. “Let me know you’re okay. Uh…remember last week, when I told you to go die in a fire? This may come as a surprise to you, but your actual death in an actual fire was not my intention. I was being colloquial as shit. Using a turn of phrase, meant to express a sentiment that was not literally…Oh my fucking god. It is my responsibility to ensure you can communicate, and so in my humble opinion it is my _mother fucking right_ to get some sort of reply in order to do myjob, so you can do _your_ job, so I can do my…Come on, _talk_ to me! Pick up the phone, press the teeny little button, and…do the thing!”

            It took Valerie thirty-two breaths to reach the rocky during the pebbles of the lakeshore, and Roger talked for every single one of them. Once she got to the rocks, she paused for a breath. “Thanks,” she said.

            “Valerie?”

            “For talking at me like that,” she said.

            “ _At_ you?”

            “Think I’ll be good. I’m going to be under-”

            There was a loud crack behind her. She ignored it and kept sliding forward over the smooth pebbles of the lakeshore.

            “What was that?” said Roger. “Val, are you-”

            “Branch snapped. Too far away to hurt. Roger, I’m going underwater.”

            “Oh, because drowning beats the hell out of burning alive,” he said.

            “Don’t plan to drown. Got my Boy Scout snorkel,” she said. She pulled out a neon orange, L-shaped plastic tube. The short end was about two inches; the long end was six inches, but could telescope out to two feet.

            “Oh…kay. How are they going to see you?”

            Valerie untied her bandana from around her head, extended the plastic tube to its full, majestic two feet, and tied the bandana around the end. “Tell them to watch for the flag on the water. Yellow.”

            Roger paused. “Good luck,” he said. His voice was hollow, like a preacher spreading the word for a cause long lost. “Actually, it does sound a bit better.”

            “What?”

            “Drowning,” said Roger.

            “Better than what?”

            “How is it…never mind,” said Valerie. “Stop talking. Oh, and call my sister. 253-412-0001. Tell her transponder number quad-zero zero double-O one is down.”

            “‘Quad-zero’ like four and then zero, or ‘quad-zero’ like-”

            “Four zeroes, then a zero, then two zeroes and a one.”

            “Sure, whatever. What were you even doing up there?”

            “She’ll know what it means,” said Valerie. “Gotta go! Remember, yellow flag on the water!” She knew he’d remember, but it felt better saying it.

            “Got it. Valerie, if-”

            “Bye!” said Valerie. She dropped the radio and raised the plastic tube to her lips, her bandana dangling from the top. She sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and slid into the water, face up.

            It was _cold_.

            Valerie had been swimming in mountain lakes like this before, and the first moment always felt like ice creeping in through her pores and freezing her top to bottom. She had steeled herself for that. Welcomed it.

            She’d never swam in one after standing next to a forest fire.

            The sudden change in temperature hit her like a physical blow. It ripped into her body, tearing her heat away, draining her. Her skin screamed. It felt ready to blister, to split and freeze and fall away. That was good, Valerie reminded herself. Pain was proof of life.

            The pain started to fade as her skin grew accustomed to the temperature. And then the pain from all her other injuries – bruises, scrapes, damaged arms and back – began to fade. The cold crept into her, wiping away the pain. And then, bit by bit, wiping away every other sensation.

            Valerie had always supposed it was time to worry when the pain ended. She was worried now, but all she could do was wait. She sucked air through the tube. In. Out. In. Out. She counted the breaths. A last sign of life.

            In the cold and the dark, Valerie waited, and breathed.

                                                                  

            _10:54 Seattle, 13:54 New York, 18:54 Oxford, 24:24 Bangalore_


	5. Our world has gone, and four (Frag. 5)

            “Right now, top priority is to get everyone into the game,” recited Melanie. “Each server player runs _Sburb_ for a client player – that’s the person who’s doing the entry sequence. The game won’t work otherwise. The idea is…um, we set up a loop, with each player group as client to the one before it and server to the one afterward. So the Egberts will run our game, and we’ll run the game for the…what’s-their-names in England.”

            “The Nunsworths,” said Elaine. She sat at the wheel of the ’75 Caprice. The constant downpour hammered the windshield and made the pavement of Interstate 87 slick, but ‘75 was a good model. It had power and weight to it, and the way it clung to the road felt just right. On the best days, it handled so well it might well be part of her body, its wheels her feet and its windshield her eyes, its motor her heart. Even in the rain, it sliced through the oil and rain on the road like a yacht through open water. “I have intimate knowledge of _Sburb_ ’s mechanics. Why couldn’t I act as a server for each group?”

            “The server player has to protect the client and set things up quickly, and running the interface takes a lot of focus. So we _could_ have one person running it for everyone else, but it’s…not the best idea.” Melanie paused, tapping her feet against the floor. “So…that’s it.”

            “Thank you. Now-” Elaine cut short twisting the wheel to avoid an old Volkswagen Type 2. The Microbus. ’68, if Elaine was right, painted an abominable shade of gold. It hid a loose pack of cars and trucks sliding down the road, skidding from lane to lane. Elaine pressed down on the pedal, rushing up to meet them.

            “Will you _slow down_?” shouted Melanie. The girl’s hands gripped the handle on the door.

            Elaine suppressed a grin and pressed the pedal harder. Her daughter wouldn’t like this one bit.

            The engine roared. Elaine brought the Caprice into the pack before her, weaving between them with a grace some might consider reckless. She was a hummingbird among sparrows, trees zooming by on either side. She didn’t normally let herself drive like this, but today, the 13th of April, 2009, was a special day, and time was at a premium. It was 3:00 PM. If she didn’t have her family – and the entire network – ready by 7:00, it would be, as they say, game over. An appropriate, if uncomfortably literal, analogy. And a perfect excuse to use let the Caprice do what it was made to do.

            A minute and one or two very near misses later, they had cleared the pack. Elaine took a deep breath. “Now, do you have any questions?”

            “WHAT WAS _THAT_ ABOUT?”

            “Questions about the game, please.”

            “Mom!” Melanie almost never used that word to address Elaine. Elaine sometimes wondered if her daughter thought of as “Mom”. She was so formal for a girl so young. It was Elaine’s fault. Most things in Melanie’s life were. Elaine sometimes tried to blame the contract, but _she_ was the one who had taken her daughter up to the lab. Contracts are nothing without signatories to uphold them, and Elaine had done her part in that regard. She no longer doubted its necessity, but shadows of thoughts in the back of her mind still whispered that she had betrayed Melanie, fundamentally and completely. Perhaps they were right.

            “If this is about my driving, I-”

            “I know we’re in a hurry!” said Melanie. “But if you crash on the way there, _then_ what do we do?”

            Elaine had the sudden urge to slap Melanie. A vision entered her mind, an image of the future, superimposed over reality. Her hand would flick up across the girl’s cheek, from the jawline to just below the eyes. Her nails were long, and would trace three small scratches where they fell. Not enough to bleed, but enough to teach the girl a lesson. One she quite needed.

            _No._ Elaine’s hand twitched on the steering wheel, but she kept her face straight and her voice smooth. “You are right,” she said, with effort.

            The sound of Melanie’s jaw dropping to the floor echoed through the cab.

            “Now,” said Elaine. “Do you have any questions about the game?”

            Melanie remained silent. The silence was sharper than any remark: it invited Elaine to imagine a host of things Melanie might have said, to feel a tiny sliver of scorn from each.

            “Do you have any questions,” Elaine said, “that are not inane, irrelevant, or contrary?”

            “…Yeah, actually,” said Melanie. The girl had never gesticulated much; much like Elaine herself, Melanie had always preferred to express herself through what she said, or more importantly, what she did not say. For instance, in Melanie’s current position, most people would have their arms crossed. “Why did you have me go through that whole act of repeating everything you just told me? I know it’s not just a mnemonic, like usual – it was way too thorough, especially considering we’re on a time limit.”

            “It was a rehearsal,” said Elaine.

            “What, do you want me to present it at school?” said Melanie. “Are you putting the end of the world on hold so you can finally see the school play?”

            Elaine did not say anything.

            “I get performance anxiety. Know what they cast me as last year?”

            Elaine did not know. Nor did she say anything. She did not say anything very, very carefully.

            “A rock,” continued Melanie. “I was a rock. No lines at least, but I had to curl up in a ball the whole time, and Joey McGee used me as a seat. Maybe they’ll let me be a meteor this year. It’s a pretty similar role; all they’d have to do is set me on fire and drop me off the roof. Hey, maybe we’d even get a cameo from a real meteor! That would be fun, because with the stage blown up, I wouldn’t have to stand on it.”

            “Melanie,” said Elaine. She took a breath every few words to keep her voice steady. “Beyond memory, the reason I had you to rehearse this is because in a few hours, I will need you to explain them to several groups of strangers.”

            Her daughter gaped. “Mom! Why didn’t you-”

            “I did not tell you this was a rehearsal precisely _because_ of your performance anxiety,” said Elaine. “I believed your familiarity with aptitude tests would allow you better focus on the task at hand if you believed this was one.”

            “But you’re just dumping all of this in my lap? Just like that?” said Melanie. “Couldn’t _you_ explain it to them? Or maybe…I don’t know…have told me before _today_? When this thing is supposed to-”

            “ _In addition_ , I had hoped that conducting the task under familiar circumstances would help you associate it with familiarity rather than stress,” said Elaine. “Had I told you earlier, you would have-”

            “Yeah, a day. A week, maybe a month earlier. Sure, I’d be stressed then,” said Melanie, her voice edging on panic. “But how about a year? Two years? Maybe if it had become one of those ‘familiar circumstances’, and we wouldn’t be dealing with all this!”

            “I _said_ there-” Elaine’s words choked in her throat. She had become too used to keeping secrets, and her very body rebelled against the idea of letting them slip. Her voice cut short, and her thought, the sentence she had planned and readied, vanished. She could not tell Melanie that. It was accounted for, but wrong. The girl was not ready. Elaine had prepared her for today since the day of the contract, but the fact was she wasn’t made for it. Not like Rose Lalonde, or Ms. Egbert’s nephew. By fate, Melaine would never be anything but _almost_ good enough. No more, no less. She should have been allowed to be a bystander, not forced to face this. Elaine shouldn’t… _should not_ have to face telling her. It was unaccounted for.

            “What did you-”

            With a sharp, stiff motion, Elaine held up a hand for silence.

            It worked.

            Elaine blinked deliberately and breathed. Her mind spun, searching for the thought she had lost, tracing backward to find it. There had been a hint in her final justification for not explaining herself, pointing toward a wall of selfish terror that stopped her from doing what needed to be done.

            That would not do.

            “I said there were things I should have told you years ago,” Elaine said. Her voice wavered, but it was clear and strong.

            “Things like?”

            “Things like the purpose of SkaiaNet,” said Elaine. “Things like my work there, and the reason we visited the main laboratory eight times a year since the day you were born.”

            “Uh,” Melanie said.

             Pieces of information, secrets accumulated over the last thirteen years, whirled through her mind and assembled into an outline, then filled in with descriptions and details. In just a moment, she had a near-compete speech prepared in her mind, with a bit of room left for variation. “The first thing you need to understand is that many of my actions were part of my contract with SkaiaNet. I started work at there in-”

            “February, 1996,” said Melanie. “Two months and a bit after my birthday.”

            “That is correct, dear, but please do not cut in unless you have a specific question. It’s disruptive.”  
            Melanie grumbled something about conversation trees.

            Elaine tapped her finger on the wheel, spinning through her planned description to find where she left off. “Ah, yes. SkaiaNet had an opening for a very particular position. It was listed as a game design position, but it also required management, advanced programming, and neuroscience, as well familiarity with physics, biology, psychology, and archaeology. SkaiaNet was already infamous for vaporware, but it not only stayed afloat, but had somehow accumulated enormous resources – all of which went into this single game. No, this had to be a front for something. Something I had to be involved in.

            “I was only half wrong. The project _was_ a game – the same game you hold right now. It took a few years before I really believed that myself. But _Sburb_ was also the most ambitious project I had ever seen. In fact, it was the largest project of any sort in history. And unlike most people who say that sort of thing, I am not exaggerating, and I am not wrong. Roxanne and I devoted nearly every aspect of our lives to it for thirteen years, and everything we did amounted to little more than integrating the parts. SkaiaNet has existed since 1920s for the sole purpose of producing _Sburb_. A few reports say that work on the game started even earlier than that.”

             “Wait, slow down.” said Melanie. “ _Sburb_ is a computer game, right?”

            Elaine pondered how to answer that one for a moment. “It is a game, and it runs on a computer.”

            “Okay, that was needlessly cryptic, so I’m going to ignore it,” said Melanie. “Anyway, how the hell did they work on it in the ‘20s? Mechanical computers?”

            “No. _Sburb_ is only a computer game in part. The computer game part of it, what you hold in your hand, is _Sburb_ ’s surface layer. That is what I worked on, mostly. It lets your computer run a user interface and connect with other players, but its most important function is to communicate with the greater part of the game. The part we call the Box.”

            “Well that’s a bit-”

            “It _is_ cryptic. As it turns out, a company whose express goal is to save the population of Earth from inevitable destruction tends toward a degree of drama in its workplace culture.” Elaine paused to recover her train of thought. “The Box – short for ‘Black Box’ – is an enormous and indecipherable program. SkaiaNet’s founder Mr. Harley discovered most of it on an unmapped island in in the south Pacific. The island had an old ruin carved up and down with glyphs we never understood: millions of lines, all out of order, all part of one enormous program. The rest of the code was scattered around the world, all found in similar, smaller ruins. For fifty years, finding bits of code, transcribing them, putting them in order, and trying without any success to interpret them were SkaiaNet’s work.

            “Imagine a jigsaw puzzle with thousands of pieces, scattered across some of the most remote locations on Earth with no hint as to their locations. Imagine that each piece is a black square, indistinguishable from every other, and each of these indistinguishable pieces must oriented in a precise manner. By comparison, my work was relatively trivial. That is not to say it was small, or easy. It merely illustrates the enormity of the task my predecessors faced.”

            “Wait,” said Melanie. “I thought nobody knew how it worked. How did they know when they were done building it?”

            Elaine chuckled. “That part was easy. The Box was completed in 1978. The older employees say that the moment all of the bits of code were arranged in proper order, the entire thing vanished, replaced by a green tablet with that house emblem on it.”

            Melanie looked down at the envelopes in her hand. One of them bore the same emblem: a green house, broken into four squares with a smaller fifth one inside. The logo of _Sburb_. “And you just believed them?” she said. “No reasonable doubt? No skepticism?”

            “Sweetie, I have seen the Box. I have worked with it, as much as anyone can work with that thing. It is…not ordinary.”

            “So the Box is magic,” said Melanie, unsatisfied. “Just like the game. Well I suppose that explains everything! Thank you for your time.”

            “The Box…” Elaine paused, thinking of a to phrase her thoughts without sounding absurd. She failed to find one. “It would be more accurate to say that the Box is the source of the _Sburb_ ’s more esoteric-”

            “Magical,” said Melanie.

            “ _Unique_ properties,” said Elaine. “The fact that I cannot explain its ability to edit reality does not mean that no explanation exists.”

            Melanie frowned, scowled, then shrugged. Thirteen years ago, Elaine herself had learned to accept the unknown as a factor. Her own reaction had been so similar.

            Elaine took a moment to relocate her preplanned description. “The Box emits an enormous number of distinct, continuous signals. It can accept and respond to unique inputs, and has a distinct memory for each one. This property allowed me to build built an interface with the Box as a foundation, one that would allow users to exploit its ability to modify reality. It was not easy. The Box could not interface with any existing intermediate language, so I built an interpreter and a compiler to get the UI to talk to it, as well as a design platform that would work with Box-compatible code. _Then_ I could build the UI.

            “The Box also accepts the presence of nearby individuals as unique inputs. This makes working with it less than pleasant.” Elaine felt her voice quiver. She took a slow breath, and gripped the wheel tighter. This part would be difficult. “The more time you spend near the Box, the more directly you work with it, the more the world around you…shifts. Though nothing was proven, most observers – myself included – felt a distinct sense of purpose in it, as if it were molding them to serve some unfathomable design.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Nobody was ever able to stand working closely with it for long.”

            Melanie took a moment to connect the dots. “You used technicians,” she said. “You had them work on the Box so you didn’t have to. So whatever it did would happen to them instead of someone that really mattered. That’s…”

            “Harsh. And necessary.”

            “I just don’t get how you kept at it,” said Melanie. Her voice grew louder. “Did you just…keep your eyes on your code? Remind yourself how ‘necessary’ those technicians were? Thank them for their sacrifice in secret? How often did you have to remind yourself that it was for a ‘cause’, that everything was you did was worth it. That it _had_ to be?”

            Elaine jerked the wheel to the right and veered off the road, and the cars behind her honked and slowed. On the shoulder, she slammed the brakes. The tires screamed against the pavement, and the Caprice lurched to a halt. Elaine leaned forward, her forearms against the wheel. She closed her eyes, shaking. For thirteen years, she had made herself forget what had to happen for her work to continue – at least, the parts she wasn’t directly involved in. The parts concerning Melanie. She had to forget the sacrifices, the technicians who had muttered about arms coming out of the wall, objects moving of their own accord. The ones who had resigned, or gone into a psych ward, or simply vanished. She had to focus on the work itself. It had been necessary. It was _still_ necessary. And her shortsighted, self-righteous brat of a daughter had just made it impossible.

            “I’m right,” said Melanie. “You really did think your-”

            Elaine’s right hand snapped up and clamped over the girl’s mouth. “Melanie! _Do. Not. Judge. Me._ ” She took a breath and loosened her grip. “And when you do, for the sake of our own survival, _keep it to yourself_.”

            Melanie froze, then slowly moved her hand up. She put it on Elaine’s and removed it from her mouth, then placed it in her lap.

            Elaine wiped her eyes with her left hand. “When I say the things I did were necessary, I am not exaggerating, and I am not wrong. But by no means does that make those things right.” She gave Melanie’s hand a squeeze. Melanie hesitated, but returned it. “I do not need your acceptance, but I do need your understanding and your cooperation.”

            “How do you know-” Melanie interrupted herself, then continued more quietly. “How do you know you’re right? You said the Box could influence people’s environments, you implied it could change their thoughts. How do you know it didn’t think all this up for you?”

            “I don’t,” said Elaine. She withdrew her hand, straightened her back, and flicked her dark, curly hair out of her eyes. She pulled up the cuffs on her lab coat. “I have no way to know that the Box does not influence my actions. That fact has worried me for years.”

            Melanie did not say anything to that. In the quiet car, the pounding of the rain became a low roar that mingled with the hum of the motor. Elaine listened to it for a moment. She checked for oncoming traffic, pressed the gas, and brought the car back on the road.

            “So,” said Melanie after a full minute of driving. Her voice was full of forced cheer. “Uh. Could we talk about why I always had to come to-”

            “Could we not talk about it?”

            Melanie scowled. “I guess.”

            “We will, dear. I promise,” said Elaine. “But not now. But there were reasons that I could not tell you earlier. Good reasons.”

            Melanie nodded, unsatisfied but accepting. “So…that rehearsal. Pretending it was a test,” she said. “If it was a test, if that was true…how would I have done?”

            Elaine relaxed, grateful for the chance to talk about something else. Giving Melanie extra practice was just a bonus. “Your explanation was terse, and mildly disorganized.”

            “Is that-”

            “The brevity was good,” Elaine said, checking the clock. It was 3:30. She pressed the gas a bit harder. “Work on your organization. I will give you one minute to prepare yourself. Ready?”

            “Ready.”

            “Begin.”

            As Melanie prepared herself to explain _Sburb_ once again, Elaine readied herself for a far more difficult explanation.

            The explanation of how she had betrayed her daughter.

 

            _11:08 Seattle, 14:08 New York, 19:08 Oxford, 24:38 Bangalore_


	6. children, fallen from the sky,  (Frag. 6)

            “Suburban camouflage,” said Maria to herself, regarding her flat. “A needle in a stack of needles.” Two parallel lines of flats, each with a red tile roof and a Spartan two-story frame, each joined to its immediate neighbors on the left and right, clung to Alexandra Road too closely, the neat line of street lanterns warding the night’s gloom from their facades. The Nunsworth flat had nothing to distinguish it save the tile address number on the wall beside the door: Number Eight, a key, a single hint to a code which allowed those with the right information to discern the house’s inhabitants.

            Maria Debiella Nunsworth dismounted her bicycle and removed her helmet, unbinding her grey hair and looking toward the flat. The light it the parlor was on, a sign that Martin was home. That didn’t surprise her in the least: given her tendency to work late at the Reading office, her presence here at the tender hour of a quarter after nineteen was far stranger. As she approached the door, she heard his voice, too faint to make out, but easily recognizable: pausing frequently, filled with a heated vigor quite contrary to his normally lackadaisical attitude. He was on the phone. Maria unlocked the door and entered the flat, folding her bicycle and depositing it and her helmet in the hall cupboard. She set her heavy knapsack on the floor by the entrance, far enough out of the way where nobody would stumble into it and damage the contents, yet close enough to keep an eye on from the kitchen table, and nudged it into the corner between floor and wall so it wouldn’t shift about. The stone slabs within gave a dull clatter, muffled by protective padding, as she set the pack there. She strode into the wainscoted kitchen, green-and-yellow patterned wallpaper cast tan in the warm light of the electric lamp. Upon the wall was a dial-tone phone on the wall: the old kind, tough as a stone temple and ugly as a work of modern art. Martin paced between the gas stove and the unpainted, sturdy wooden table, his new touch-screen phone glued to his face, his motions tense but smooth.

            “Mrs. MacNair, just bear with me, please. I know this is all very strange. If I’m wrong, just find a new instructor for the boy.” He paused, listening. “Yes, I know this is all very-”

            “Down,” muttered Maria. With a single, casual motion she took the phone from Martin’s hand, placed it on the table, wrapped her arms about him, and kissed him. He froze, then softened, letting her press him back against the table, the soft bristles of his beard gracing at her mouth and cheeks. Martin’s kisses were soft, reactive, his grip light; he would never respond with the fire of most men, however much the part of her that drove her to kiss him that way might wish it. It was, like many things of which she knew, an impossibility: a foreseeable hazard, she supposed, of wedding an asexual man. A sacrifice, to be sure, but the benefits were well worth the cost.

            Martin pulled back and reached for the phone. “I need to…well it’s slightly very important that I…”

            Maria placed her hand on his and drew it up between the two of them, clasping it. “Remember the rules of tonight. Nothing can change.”

            Martin didn’t speak, but his hand gave a small tremor.

            The phone beeped; the call had ended. Maria and her husband both glanced at it, and she pulled him closer. “That that was the parent of a student, wasn’t it?” she said.

            Martin let her pull him forward, leaning on her, gripping her more tightly. “Yes. Justin’s stepmother.”

            “Were you talking to her about tonight?”

            Martin tensed and pulled back, looking her face to face. “Yes.”

            Maria released his hand, stroked his beard, and shook her head, not quite smiling. He could never change anything about tonight, nor could she; she’d told him just before leaving SkaiaNet, back when she had only a vague hint of things to come and he had none at all.

            “We have the time,” said Martin. “Four hours. We could gather my students, get them to safety. Most of them don’t live too far away.”

            Maria stared at his face in the warm lamplight: small grey eyes, neat beard, age-weathered features still earnest, the hint of a smile etched in every wrinkle. He really believed he could save those children: a show of shining, idiotic, beautiful belief in the impossible. She leaned in and kissed him, kissed him as if that would make it true.

            “We could do it,” he said.

            The old phone, the ugly one mounted on the wall, rang.

            Two heads snapped toward it.

            Between Maria’s office at Reading, her home in Oxford, and the demands that the field of archeology placed upon her to visit museum and universities and dig sites time and again, the popularization of the cellular phone had been a godsend for Martin and herself. They rarely used the phone on the wall, and salespeople aside, only a few old contacts still used that number. Of those few, only very select group would have a good reason to call this evening, and of that select group, there was precisely one whose call tonight Maria had anticipated for years.

            Maria pulled back from Martin to take the call; he didn’t release her. “‘Nothing can change’,” he said, quoting her.

             “Precisely,” she said. “This call will change nothing. It’s accounted for, and therefore must occur.”           

            The phone continued to ring. “If it changes nothing, why take it?” said Martin.

            “The laws of fate do not preclude action; they merely determine the boundaries of possibility.” Maria felt her voice rise as she spoke. “Nothing can alter the course of tonight’s events. I know this call will happen, and so it must.”

            “You just told me that this must happen…because it must happen.” Martin gave her a dour expression, but released her and sat down at the table, clasping his hands. “Please don’t tell me I’m supposed to take this seriously.”

            “Yes,” said Maria. She frowned. “And yes.” She had tried to explain the rules of causality to him, but was hampered by the arcane nature of the topic, as well as the imperfection of her own knowledge. In his position, she would have demanded proof. She _could_ show it to him, but the phone was still ringing. Maria walked across the kitchen and picked it up. “Ms. Timbal?” she said.

            There was no response.

            “Ms. Timbal, this is-”                                        

            There was a barking laugh from the phone, sonorous and very male. “I’m not her. Sorry. But as guesses go, you could have done worse.” The voice had a New York accent, with a hint of something else that Maria couldn’t place, something very much not American.

            “Not Elaine, but similar accent, time of call matches…” thought Maria aloud. “Ah. Mr. Timbal, is it?”

            At the mention of Mr. Timbal’s name, Martin glanced up, the ball of his left foot tapping on the ground. It was a fencer’s habit – the first motion of a lunge was to lift the ball of the leading foot, and a dedicated fencer would execute that motion with such frequency it became as natural as blinking. Its speed and rhythm, however, denoted a tension far beyond mere habit.

            “Please,” said Mr. Timbal. “Just call me-”

            “Antonio, yes,” she said. “I know your name.”

            “How did you know-”

            “Mr. Timbal-”

            “Really, it’s alright. Just call me Anto-”

            “ _Mr. Timbal_ , let me be clear. Were money to be of any use after tonight, I would wager a great deal of it that the number of relevant facts which I know and you do not outweighs the total number of relevant facts you know. Telling you how I know them would require explaining some rather arcane concepts related to the fundamental nature of the universe. I doubt you have the patience.”

            “My daughter’s a manufactured prodigy, and my wife is…um, Elaine,” said Mr. Timbal. “Try me.”

            “No,” she said. “I’m a professor, and if you’ll forgive the self-demonstrative commentary, my explanations tend toward the verbose. If I were to discuss this matter with you at the length it warrants, we would still be here by what will pass for tomorrow morning, which is, as I’m sure you know, rather outside the scope of our schedule.”

            Martin’s foot-tapping stopped. He rose, filled a yellow kettle with water, and placed it upon the stove, his movements stiff.

            “Fair enough,” said Mr. Timbal. “Anyway, I called because I need to tell you some things so we can get started on _Sburb_ -”

            “I know.”

            “-and given the last thing you said…um, the thing about you talking a lot. Given that fact, mind if I ask you a quick favor?”

            “I _said_ we’re a bit pressed for time,” said Maria. “Speak briefly, if you please.” Martin snorted, and she winced at her open hypocrisy.

            “Please don’t interrupt me.”

            Maria frowned. “I didn’t interrupt you.”

            “This time,” muttered Martin.

            “No, I…No,” said Mr. Timbal. “Not interrupting me _was_ the favor. Could you not do it?”

            “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

            “Ooooookay. First thing is…crap.” Mr. Timbal paused, and Maria heard the click-clacking of a keyboard. “Where was that e-mail…”

            The low sound of a hand-cranked coffee grinder filled the kitchen: at the counter, Martin had brought out a glass French press, and was preparing the grounds.

            “Right, found it,” said Mr. Timbal. “Sorry about that. When it comes to handing out information, Elaine has a tendency to wait until the ‘too late’ train has come and gone.”

            Maria was all too aware how SkaiaNet handled information. She’d never actually worked with Elaine; she had left the company to delve deeper into her own findings several years before Elaine joined. During her time there, she had answered directly to Ms. Lalonde, whose communications would either show up several weeks late, full of errors, or otherwise be lost to the void completely. Perhaps it was a problem with long-distance communication; perhaps the odd nature of that island was to blame, but Maria suspected Ms. Lalonde was just like that. She wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Elaine, as Ms. Lalonde’s chief lackey, shared the same tendencies. “Continue,” she said.

            “Okay. Players of _Sburb_ organize themselves into ‘sessions’ – groups of players, working together. Each player facilitates the next player’s transition from Earth into the Medium. Um…that’s the world of the game.” He paused, reading. “Hold on. This thing also calls it the ‘Incipisphere’. I have no idea what the difference is, or if it even matters.”

            “Let’s just stick with ‘Medium’,” said Maria. “It has the benefit of being a real word.”

            “I like your reasoning,” he said. “Please don’t interrupt me again. Time limits.”

            Maria opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. “Continue.”

            “Certainly,” said Mr. Timbal as if he were doing her a great favor, which, to be fair, was not untrue in the least. “Players typically live far away from each other, one player per location. But there’s a loophole. There’s a series of tasks a player has to complete to enter the game called the Entry Sequence. Once a player completes the sequence, the game transports them the Medium, along with everything in a small radius, including other people. There’s no real limit to the number of people who can enter the game per site, as long as they’re all within the transportation zone. Elaine plans to use that to allow a group of people to enter at each site, which should let everybody in each group act as a player for the purposes of the game.”

            “‘ _Should’?_ ” said Maria. “Elaine developed this game – oughtn’t she know for certain?”

            “Uh…no. Explaining why would take more time than we have,” said Mr. Timbal.

            Maria tried not to snicker, and failed.

            “Besides,” said Mr. Timbal, “the explanation she gave me was pretty vague, so I don’t really get it either. Sorry.”

            Through no fault of Mr. Timbal’s, the lack of proper information – and lack of time to properly convey it – was becoming something of a theme. She glanced across the kitchen, where Martin busied himself pouring boiling water into the French press, filling the room with the aroma of coffee, sharp and strong. When confronted with the unknown, Martin sought to help in ways he understood: a strong cup of coffee to keep Maria awake through the long night, or a phone call to save a student.

            “Anyway,” continued Mr. Timbal. “Starting the Entry Sequence begins a countdown timer that tells you how long you have until…er, until you don’t have any more time.”

            Some of this was familiar to Maria, and the bits that weren’t made intuitive sense. While the countdown would measure time remaining before a meteor came down on the player’s location, it was in fact purely incidental, as was _Sburb_ itself. The meteor would come, game or no game, and refusal to play would therefore be useless as a survival measure, as would moving to a different location. As a function of _Sburb_ ’s roots in the essence of causality, all actions would be taken into account before the fact, and thus any attempt to move in order to avoid a meteor would only take one to the exact site of predetermined impact. Like so many other elements of _Sburb_ , its precognizant qualities were proof that fundamental threads wove through the fabric of reality, threads that that guided, reinforced, gave logic and direction. Fate. It was beautiful, once Maria had come to terms with it.

            Mr. Timbal made a noise that might be mistaken for horror, should such a reaction make any sense.

            At the table, Martin pointed to his mouth, then pointed to her. Ah. Maria had a tendency to think aloud. It helped her concentrate: a wonderful habit for late nights translating ancient scripts, but rather less helpful when entertaining guests, or Americans, as it had the unfortunate side effect of giving her the air of a madwoman. “I’m sorry for my manners. Would you mind disregarding anything you might have heard me say?”

            For several seconds, Mr. Timbal didn’t say anything at all. “Sorry…talking to you is just kind of strange,” he said. “You pronounce four or five different kinds of doom and then expect me to be bothered by manners?”

            “Working with the forces of causality tends to engender a certain acceptance of events to come, and has hardly left me the best judge of what others might consider ‘normal’,” said Maria. “And global destruction aside, this all has a pleasant sort tidiness to it, don’t you think? A satisfaction, much like closing a long book after a well-executed ending.”

            At the table, Martin opened his mouth and raised a finger, then paused, lowered his finger, and closed his mouth.

            “Rrrrrright,” continued Mr. Timbal. “Because we won’t know whose time limit is the shortest until we activate the countdowns, we’ll need to prioritize. All four groups will link up and begin the Entry Sequence. With all four countdowns triggered, we’ll know which group has the shortest time limit to enter, and get them in first.”

            “Four groups?” said Maria.

            “Yes.”

            At the table, Martin took out a sheet of paper and began writing, his pen strokes quick and sharp.

            “We’ve got Martin and myself here in Oxford, Elaine and company in New York-”

            “I’m sorry, but…‘Elaine and company’?”

            “Yes. Is there a problem, Mr. Timbal?”

            Mr. Timbal took a slow breath, then released it. “No. No, there’s not….go on.”

            “And our third group is the Egbert clan near Seattle.”

            “Not the entire clan. Er…family,” said Mr. Timbal. “The brother and nephew are going to enter separately. Elaine’s e-mail is…awfully firm about that.”

            “Hmm.” Maria didn’t know much about Elaine’s work, but if it was important that Mr. Egbert and his adopted son enter separately, Maria had her suspicions as to what that might mean. “That’s three groups; who is the fourth?”

            “I…don’t know yet. Let me check.” The sounds of Mr. Timbal typing came across the line. “Huh. Just one person.”

            “Who?”                                                                                                                 

            “Some guy named Bowman from Texas.” Mr. Timbal paused. “You don’t know who he is, do you? That would just make things too easy.”

            “You’re in luck, then.”

            “That…didn’t actually _mean_ anything. Did it?”

            “Of course it did. Don’t be silly.”

            “Sorry…but no, it didn’t,” said Mr. Timbal. “It could either mean that I’m in luck because you know him, so you can save me some time, or that I’m in luck because you don’t, so it’s not too easy. So. Which-”

            “The latter,” said Maria.                           

            “Of course.” Mr. Timbal made a frustrated noise. “Listen, I need to go and-”

            “And in the interest of preparing the rest of our party, I suggest you sign off now and get the remainder of those phone calls underway.”

            “Thanks,” he said, decidedly unthankful. “That was the plan. By the way, can I give you some advice?”

            “Speak.”

            “If there’s something that you need to tell somebody, something you need to do before we start this thing…for the love of Christ, don’t save it for a special occasion.”

            He hung up.

            Maria placed the phone upon the table and sat in the wooden chair at Martin’s left side, catching a glance at his paper for the first time: it was a list. A list of children to call, and he still scratched away at it with the pen in his left hand. Maria didn’t deal with that yet. She just sat.

            After a few moments, half a minute perhaps, Martin completed the list, set the pen down, reached for her hand, and clasped it. The two of them sat side by side, hand in hand for a time, before Martin spoke. “I remember something you said when you were thinking aloud.”

            Maria nodded, an invitation for him to speak on.

            “You said that the game…I hate to call it a game. That it takes into account all of our actions, correct?”

            “Yes. Everything we could, or will, ever do.”

            Martin gave an expression that was almost a smile, but too thoughtful, too pensive. “That’s what you mean when you say we can’t change anything. It’s not possible.”

            “Yes. And since it’s impossible, there’s no point trying. We’ve been over this.”

            Martin nodded. “Alright. I have two more questions. First, you implied that this game employs self-fulfilling prophecies as a basic function of its nature. Thus, choice exists. It’s just that actions intended to defy that design are, by virtue of its own circular logic, incorporated into it. Correct?”

            “Precisely,” said Maria. “That’s why those actions are futile.”

            “This leads me to my second question,” said Martin. “How much do you actually know about the course of events to come?”

            “I have knowledge of a few things that must occur, and a few things that must not,” said Maria. “But honestly…I know far less than I’d prefer.”

            “So we’ve established that any attempt to defy fate is irrelevant,” said Martin. He clasped her right hand in both of his. “What, then, is the harm in allowing me to try and save my students?”

            Maria froze. That was actually a very strong argument; indeed, nothing in Maria’s pool of foreknowledge explicitly precluded the survival of those children. “Allow me to make you a deal,” she said, releasing his hand and rising from her seat. “I’m going to show you something.” She walked over to the kitchen door and, with a grunt, lifted her heavy knapsack. She carried it across the kitchen and, delicately as she could, deposited it on the table. “If, after I explain its significance, you still wish to save your students, I will help you do so. Is that acceptable?”

            Martin glowered, but nodded.

            “Good,” said Maria. She pulled open the zipper on her knapsack and withdrew a fragment of a broken stone tablet, a full inch thick, wrapped in foam padding. She placed the fragment upon the table, then drew another and did the same. Then a third, a fourth, more still.

            “What is it?”

            “This is what I found on that island in the Pacific, years ago,” said Maria. “It’s what I’ve been working on for as long as you’ve known me; deciphering it; transcribing it; researching it.

            “It is, in a word, fate.”

 

_11:22 Seattle, 14:22 New York, 19:22 Oxford, 24:52 Bangalore_


	7. themselves their own progenitors, (Frag. 7)

            Only once had Chiran seen the Outer Ring Road so silent.

            Night’s haze about him, electric lights humming orange in the dark, slick smog, slick on the road beneath his tires. Today had been the first rain in weeks, rain that wiped clean the oil and grime from the pavement in rainbow rivulets like the wings of a dragonfly. Slick and sick, lovely and lethal. Ironic that this road, chaotic, clamoring by day should be the site of what may be his last moment of true quiet.

            There was only one thing for that.

            His iPod was still connected to the tape player. He pressed _Play_ , and into the cramped cabin of the sedan roared AC/DC – an unruly balm for his unruly mind, an anthem of action in the face of the end, and one hell of an alternative to caffeine. Alok drank cold coffee to keep himself awake. Alok was missing out.

            Drawing a wake of rainwater, grease, and mist upon the highway exit behind him, he cruised southbound, “Back in Black” like a lead weight on his foot. Karnataka State didn’t have speed limits for small cars, which was good because waiting out the end of the world in the back of a police car would be the embarrassment of a lifetime. The suburb he entered was on a scale beyond the imagining of the previous generation, houses branching outward in neat grids, streets extending like thirsty roots into the surrounding countryside. It was within his family’s means thanks to SkaiaNet, whose generosity made sense in hindsight. Money would have no value after the end of the world, so why save it?

            Streets passed, time passed. Far less time than Chiran expected. Should the world still exist tomorrow, he would have to travel by night more often. He halted before one house, large and American-style, with two garage doors. He had once heard a Russian in an old American movie call such houses “bourgeois”, an English word that sounded oddly un-English. Perhaps the Russian had been a multicultural fellow. He straightened his collar, a nominal effort. Drew his key. Entered.

            Carpets, rugs, tapestries, blankets. They lay beneath his feet, hung from the walls, parted the rooms, sat rolled up in the corners or at the feet of the loom before the window. Orderly chaos. Light trickled in from the street outside, but it was otherwise black. Chiran knew the carpets were there, he knew where they were, and he could step around them. Not bothering to turn on the light, he strode between the carpets one by one by one all the way past the stairs and down the hall. A door on the right, a small bedroom. By habit, he moved quietly, though there was no point. He slipped inside, winced, and flipped the light switch.

            Or he would, if he didn’t hit a blank spot on the wall. He fumbled, then swept his hand up and hit the switch.

            A burst of radiance, and flashes of light and shadow filled Chiran’s vision. The girl in the bed shouted and scrambled in shock beneath her blanket, little more than a blur to Chiran’s dazzled eyes. She looked left, up, left, now down, now up. She looked at Chiran. With an awkward twisting motion, she propped herself up on her arms and glared. His vision returned, and he saw her face: round face, brown skin, thick black hair wild from sleep. Her fear was gone, replaced by a mask of rage.

            “What are you doing here?” Shafti shouted. She was two years Chiran’s elder, still younger than Alok. Pretty enough, Chiran supposed. It was too bad about her legs. She had been promising, once.

            “Emergency,” said Chiran, blinking stars from his eyes, glancing around. A floor rug. A small wardrobe. A computer desk, sharp and clean, a library of games beneath. No chair. White walls covered with posters for this computer game or that one. Games of strategy, Shafti had once claimed. Games about tactics and reflexes, yes, but even more about understanding the system and the opponent. Surely Chiran could appreciate that, she had said. Surely he would understand. Chiran couldn’t deny it, though he chuckled at the memory. Of all forms of advertisement, posters were nearly the most ingenious: the customer paid for the right to advertise the product. _Nearly_ , only because T-shirts had broader exposure. A sucker’s buy and a promoter’s dream. Chiran snapped back to the present. “We have to go. I’ll explain along the way.”

            “That’s not an explanation!”                                                                       

            Lying at the foot of Shafti’s bed was a folding wheelchair. He lifted it, opened it up, and positioned it so she could slide in. “No, it’s not.”

            Shafti hoisted herself up with her arms and sat up straight. “You wake me up like this, you oweit to me to at least tell me why!”

            Chiran strode to her wardrobe, drew a skirt, and tossed it to her. “Would you believe me if I told you that the planet’s survival depends upon it?” he said.

            Shafti held the skirt in both hands for a moment. “No,” she said, dropping the skirt on her lap.

            “Then you’d be right,” said Chiran. “But if you _did_ believe me, you’d be less wrong than-”

            “I’d also ask you if you’ve finally cracked and started listening to that company of yours,” said Shafti. “Er. Have you?”

            “A brilliant deduction. You deserve an award.”

            “Telling the truth sarcastically doesn’t make it less true.”

            “Shafti, I’m not-”

            “Remember when I found that development leak?” she said. “I have no idea what SkaiaNet is into besides games, but-”

            “Okay! Alok and I have been going over their communications-”

            “Of course you-”

            “And we’ve found too many…” Chiran checked his watch. It was 1:39. “Let me make you a deal. If in a day’s time I’m not proven right-”

            “About what?”

            “The end of the world.”

            “You’re a joke.”

            “If I’m wrong,” said Chiran, “then I will personally take a week off work to push you around on that little cart of yours.”

            Shafti eyed the wheelchair. “Anywhere?”

            “Wherever you want to go.”

            “Out of country?”

            “Fine,” said Chiran. This was taking too long. “I’ll even add a special offer of ten free games of your choice, valid-”

            “Wait, even the beta for-”

            “This offer is valid only for the next ten seconds.” Chiran tapped on the doorframe. Rap-tap-ta-tap. “Nine. Eight. Seven… _Beta_?”

            “Yes, that’s what I said.”

            “Beta for what?”

            “You’ve never wanted to talk to me about gaming before,” said Shafti. “But of course I’ll oblige you now. It’s only _one in the morning_. Why would I mind?”

            “ _What game?_ ”

            “Why do you…” Shafti paused, took a breath. “It’s called _Sburb_. You know it, I’m sure.”

            Chiran nodded. To be honest, she probably knew more about it than he did. He had no idea how many gaming magazines and columns were out there, but Shafti followed far more than he had ever heard of. She’d even written some articles of her own. Some in English, some in Korean.

            “I tried to get a copy, but…well. It was a _closed_ beta,” said Shafti.

            “I thought you hated SkaiaNet,” said Chiran. “Why do you want their game?”

            “They steal artifacts from around the world and take them back to America.” Shafti inched toward the wheelchair as she spoke. “You think I can look at that and not grow curious? I mean, what interest does a game company have in exploitative archaeology?”

            “Exploitative?”

            “Never mind that,” Shafti said. “I don’t even understand why they’re doing it!”

            “Publicity?”               

            “They certainly use it for that, but there are far easier methods of advertisement. It could be simple post-colonialism.” She swung herself into the wheelchair. Laid the skirt across her lap. “But I don’t think that’s it either. They have far more resources than they let on, and I have no idea what they want. What are they up to, Chiran?”

            “I only move their goods, Shafti. But if you want to investigate _Sburb_ , I promise you that this excursion will prove enl…ern…um.” When had the room started spinning? Chiran blinked his eyes and shook his head. “ _Enlightening_.”

            “How long have you been awake?”

            Chiran noticed that he was leaning on the doorframe. He stood up straight. “Just get ready to go.”

            Shafti looked at him, then stared at the skirt in her hands.

            Chiran left the room. He rounded the banister, climbed the stairs, tripped over a newly-placed carpet, stood up, and came to another door. He entered, winced, and flipped the light switch.

            There was no sound. The room was a battlefield of clashing color. Carpets, rugs, drapes, deep reds and blues and gossamer yellows. They hung from the ceiling, lined the walls, covered the floor. The bed was a four-poster, encased in heavy maroon curtains with intricate patterns embroidered in black and green, with a mahogany bedside desk holding a pair of knitting needles and a small lamp with a beaded shade. A hooked cane was propped at its side. There was no sound from within the curtains.

            “Grandmother?” whispered Chiran.

            No sound.

            Chiran crept forward. “Grandmother Nalani.”

            Still no sound.

            Chiran moved forward, the soft carpet springy beneath his feet. He brought his hand up to the drapes and grasped them between his fingers, silky-soft. Pulled them an inch toward open. Froze. Removed the knitting needles from the desk. After a moment’s consideration, removed the lamp as well. Then pulled the curtains open.

            Within lay a woman, near-white hair and dark brown, weathered skin. Over her eyes was a silken sleeper’s blindfold. She wore earplugs.

            He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Grand-”

            Her hand shot out of the covers to the bedside table. It snapped shut, darted up, and froze an inch from Chiran’s temple.

            Chiran glanced over. She had reached for the spot where the knitting needles had been. It was good that he’d moved them, or they would be embedded in his brain. “Hello, Grandmother.”

            “Oh. Hello, Chiran.” She drew back her hand, removed the blindfold, and placed it on the pillow next to her head. Her eyes were brown, so deep it seemed to fade forever to black. She sat up. “How quickly do you need me up?”

            “I’m sorry for waking you, but…what?”

            “What’s our timeframe?” She threw the covers off and swung her legs off the bed.

            “How did you know-”

            With a grunt, she hoisted herself off the bed. “It was a good bet. Hand me my cane and needles.”

            Chiran did.

            “And put that lamp back on the desk where you found it.”

            Chiran did that too.

            Leaning on the cane, Grandma Nalani bent down, drew a red-and-yellow knitted bag from a drawer, and placed the needles in it. “Now. What is our timeframe?”

            Chiran blinked. The light shifted, and it didn’t shift back when he blinked again. He shook his head. “It’s…soon.”

            “Go on and wake your sister. I’ll be down in just a minute.”

            Chiran nodded and walked out. He froze at the door. Turned around, blinking. “Already done that.” Had he? Yes, he had. He had.

            “Good planning. And stand up straight.”

            Chiran had been leaning against the doorway. He pushed himself upright. “I’ll-”

            “Go get the car ready.”

            Chiran nodded. Shuffled back downstairs. He tripped on the bottom step. Picked himself up. Of course Grandmother Nalani knew it was an emergency. She had known the moment he woke her.

            Chiran would never wake her for less. He wouldn’t dare.

 

            –              

 

            The warehouse was dark, its offices empty. The door to the main room opened without a sound. Most warehouses skimped on maintenance. From the owner’s perspective, there was just no point. A rusty door or two might chance damage to a unit or two, but those could be replaced. SkaiaNet was not like most companies. It expected perfection, and was willing to pay for it.

            Alok didn’t bother with the lights. Under normal conditions, searching the 4,500,000 copies of _Sburb_ held here for one particular unit would have taken between 8 to 26 minutes. Today, conditions were not normal. Of those 4,500,000, only one still sat upon the shelves. Unit 0000-0-004. Before him, rows of shelves extended into the darkness, organized in two parallel columns, all empty. Alok strode to the first place in the first row of the first column and took the oblong package that sat there. He headed out, shoes squeaking against the spotless concrete floor.

            He didn’t even lock the door.

 

            _11:36 Seattle, 14:36 New York, 19:36 Oxford, 1:06 Bangalore_


	8. were fated (Frag. 8)

            All things considered, Andrea should have taken the day off.

            Not that she minded analyzing MRIs and EEGs, but on what might be her last day, wasn’t a bit of relaxation in order? Nicole had said so this morning, but this room, with its beige walls, its shelves full of neuroscience texts, its narrow window looking out onto Kent Valley, was as much home to her as the apartment in Tacoma. The work she did at Auburn MultiCare never required anything close to the daily genius of SkaiaNet. It wasn’t new or exciting. Exciting was for people with nothing else to do. Ten years ago, that was fine. But with the intermittent underground war between Nicole’s bakery and the CrockerCorp empire raging higher, work became a safe place. A place to clear her mind and prepare for whatever would come next.

            Meteors, it was supposed to be. Yeah. Sure.

            Sucking on a candy cane from green the tin on her desk, she examined the CT scan on the old, boxy computer screen. Outside the windows stretched farmlands and corporate parks wreathed in the haze of early spring, the lip of the valley as their backdrop. Mt. Rainier loomed in the distance beyond, a rare sight in April, when clouds obscured it.

             “You remind me of the babe,” said David Bowie from beneath her desk, his voice only just audible through the soft leather of the purse. It was her phone. “The babe with the power.” Bowie was a bit mannish for her taste, but _Labyrinth_ was a classic. She used to watch it with Mom, Andrea for the movie and Mom for the fanservice. The lady had always appreciated a good…wait. Andrea’s phone was ringing.

            Her _phone_.

            Andrea nearly fell off her chair reaching for her purse. Dropping her candy cane to the floor, she plunged her hand to the purse, fumbled, grasped the phone, drew it out, and flipped it open. It was an in-state number, though she had no idea what part. She put it to her ear.

            “Transponder 0000-0-001 is down,” said the voice on the line. Male.

            Andrea almost dropped the phone. “I’m…what…who is this?” She checked her hand. Oh. She _had_ dropped the phone. She leaned down to pick it up, but her chair rolled backward under her, and her reach fell short. She clambered onto the floor and grabbed it, picking up her fallen candy cane while she was there.

            “ _0-001 is down, do you-_ ”

            “Who are you?” said Andrea, climbing back up in the chair.

            “This is Andrea Egbert?” The voice was nasal and anxious.  
            “No, _I’m_ Andrea Egbert. Who are-”

            “Good. Valerie told me to tell you Transponder 0000-0-001 is down.”

            Blowing the dust off her candy cane, Andrea took a moment to digest that. She didn’t even drop the phone. “How did-”

             “She _didn’t_ want me to tell you that she went down with it,” he said. “Um. By the way, I’m Roger.”

            “You know, telling somebody her s-sister might…not be the best intro…intro…” Andrea’s words tripped over her tongue and piled up in her mouth. Her body tensed. That was her sympathetic nervous system kicking in, preparing her body for stress: neural spikes triggered the release of cortisol and epinephrine, cascading into a surge of acetylcholine that heightened muscle tension. The study of neuroscience came with a bitter irony: understanding the precise mechanics of a given emotional reaction didn’t give her the slightest bit of control over it. “Tell me. Tell me she’s okay.”

            “Yeah. Medevac’d her.”

            “Where?”

            “She’s at Covington-”

            “ _Covington?_ ”

            “Yeah,” said Roger. “She barely got out. Came up with this crazy plan to-”

            “ _Covington?_ Really?” Andrea sucked her candy cane, trying not to shake. “That’s not a hospital, it’s a box of Band-Aids. Only a box of Band-Aids won’t turn you out because the receptionist is tired.”

            “Look, I didn’t read the hospital reviews, and the choppers have a limited range, and oh right your sister was dying so we were in a bit of a hurry to _save her fucking life_.”

            Andrea stood up and pushed in the chair harder than she meant to. It bounced off the lip of the desk and drifted backward. “How is she?” she said, pushing it back in. “And…thanks.”

            “Uh…multiple dislocations, fractures, lacerations, a lot of blood loss, _plus_ hypothermia and a mild case of drowning.” He read it like an itemized list.

            “Oh,” said Andrea. “That’s all?”

            “Weren’t you freaking out just a moment earlier?”

            “Sure.”

            “Shouldn’t this make it _worse_?”                                                        

            Andrea popped the entire candy cane into her mouth and bit down. “You haven’t known Valerie long, have you?” she said around the crunchy bits of hard candy.

            “I’m a desk jockey, she’s a…forest jockey,” he said. “We talk. On the phone.”

            “Val’s an Egbert. We’re tough.” Andrea swallowed the rest of the delicious hard candy, then reached down, popped the thumb drive out of her computer, and slid it into the blue leather purse beneath her desk. Nicole had got it for her, and she’d gotten used to it, though she’d replaced the strap with a longer one so she could actually wear it. “If she survived, she’ll be up again.”

            “You didn’t see the pictures! I saw the pictures. Those were nasty pictures,” said Roger. “Er. Injuries. Pictures of injuries.”

            “I don’t think you understand me when I say ‘tough’,” said Andrea, standing up and flipping her frizzy hair out of her face. She turned to leave the lab, then froze, wheeled around, and grabbed the tin of candy canes before heading out.

            “Is this ‘ignore a bee sting’ kind of tough, or ‘wrestle a bear’ kind of tough?”

            Andrea walked out into the hall and summoned the elevator. “A truck hit my brother once,” she said. “He flipped it over on his way back up. By accident. They sued him for damages.”

            “No…that’s not…you can’t just…no! That’s bullshit!”

            “He didn’t even lose his hat,” said Andrea. “Val’s not _that_ tough, but she’ll make it. Just gotta make sure she’s awake soon enough.”

            “For what?”                                             

            “That is something that…um…” The elevator dinged, and Andrea entered. Inside awaited a colorful group interns in equally-colorful scrubs. Andrea gave them a nod and stepped inside. “We had plans. Let’s say that.”

            ““Plans more important than horrifying, terrible injuries?”

            “I’d really rather not go into it.”

            “What, is it too complicated for my feeble mind?”

            “It’s too complicated for _mine_.”

            “Oh.” The sound of ruffling papers came across the line. “Could it have to do with that transponder?”

            “What…” The interns leaning against the elevator walls took too much notice. Best to be quiet. “What transponder?”

            “Why are you whispering?” said Roger.

            “Because it’s a secret.”

            “But I told you about it! Remember?” Roger swallowed. “‘ _Transponder 0000-0-001 is down!_ ’ and everything?”

            The elevator lurched to a halt just as Andrea’s stomach lurched. She gagged. Stupid Vagus nerve.  “ _That_ transponder.”

            Giving the interns a nod, Andrea strode out of the elevator and across the lobby. “Okay. The transponder drops, so…” She trailed off. What _would_ that do? Of the thousands SkaiaNet had built, 0000-0-001 was supposed to be the most important, but Andrea had no idea why. “Look,” she said, walking out the sliding glass doors at the front entrance, “as dropping things in my lap goes, anything about Val is going to be a bigger bomb than a radio tower.”

            “How sure are you?”

            “How is that even a question?

            “It’s just…for all she knew, she was about to die, and she still made me write this thing down,” he said. “Twice. In pen!”

            “I don’t see how it could be more important than…” No. No, it was a long shot, a stupid, idiotic long shot. But she _did_ see how that tower might matter, how it might be more important than her or Valerie or even Nicole. She could only hope she was wrong. At times she missed the mad innovation of SkaiaNet, but she couldn’t go back. She was better than that. She had to be.

            “You were saying something, and you stopped,” said Roger. “Valerie does that sometimes when she’s talking about something and then remembers it’s a secret.”

            The front door slid shut behind her, and Andrea strode out onto the parking lot. A white ambulance drifted past her on the left. “It’s…” She took a deep breath. Though the sky was clear, the damp of April still hung in the air and clung to her throat, chilling it. “What do you know about SkaiaNet?”

            “Uh…it gained sentience on August 4, 1997, and we’ve been living in a post-nuclear-”

            “No, _Sky-ah-net_ ,” said Andrea, starting across the lot.

            “The game company? Valerie mentions sometimes.”

            “Does she stop talking afterward?” she said.  
            “Uh…usually,” said Roger. “Don’t tell me they built the transponder.”

            “Okay. I won’t tell you that,” said Andrea.

            “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

            “I used to do neural-link systems for their games. Fantastic stuff, but that was just the surface,” said Andrea. She stepped over one of those parking lot islands, the kind with a sapling that would never be allowed to grow up, and approached her red Ford station wagon. It was something out of the late ‘90s. She didn’t know what model it was, and didn’t really care, as long as it ran. “There were some experiments involving the nature of temporal causation.”

            “Are you sure this isn’t Skynet we’re talking about?” said Roger. “Because this is sounding more and more like Skynet.”

            “I was only on the fringes of those projects,” said Andrea. “But my old boss mentioned that Transponder 0000-0-001 was a major linchpin upholding the rules of causation behind…everything?”

            Roger paused. “That’s bullshit. That is the bullest of shit!”  

            “That’s what I thought,” said Andrea. “I mean, Elaine was pretty much nuts.”

            “Is she the kind of crazy person who’s sometimes right?”

            “No,” said Andrea, “she’s the kind of crazy person who predicts and accounts for a late shipment half a year in advance.”

            “Holy shit. Maybe there’s something to this.”

            “I hope not. But I’ve always suspected…”

            “Yeah, sure,” said Roger. “So…um, does it occur to you that, in that case, when this Elaine lady’s radio tower catches a bad case of meteor, that it _might_ be worth checking out?”

            _Meteor._

            Memories flashed before Andrea’s eyes, and she stumbled. Mom’s joke shop. A streak in the day-lit sky, clear. A sky so like today’s. A crater. She froze in place, trying to keep her knees from shaking. “Um. Okay. Wow. Give me…just give me…” A meteor. So like Mom’s death, thirteen years ago today. There was a well-documented tendency for people close to SkaiaNet to experience a sort of persistent _deja vu_. From the daily to the horrific, events would line up to mimic each other in form and substance, recurrences and reiterations and variations on the same themes, a mocking web of causal self-reference. Andrea had told herself it was coincidence, that the Box Elaine was so mad about had nothing to do with it. It had been a useful delusion while it lasted.

            She fumbled in her purse for her keys. They slid out of her shaking fingers once, twice. “ _Meteor_.” She drew the keys from the bag. “ _Meteor_ , you said.”

            “Yeah,” said Roger. “I just thought Valerie would be more important-”     

            Andrea broke into a run, unlocking the car with the click of a button. “She is.”

            “But…uh. Shouldn’t you check up on the-”

             Andrea swung into the driver’s seat, slammed the key into the ignition, and gave it a vicious twist. She slung her purse into the passenger’s seat, spilling candy canes all over the floor, and buckled up. Safety first. “Nope.”

            “Do I need to get you down there?” said Roger. “I can get you down there. I don’t know what’s going on, but this seems important.”

            “It is now.”

            “Why?”          

            “Meteors are falling,” said Andrea, pushing the clutch and working the shift as fast as she could. “That means SkaiaNet was right.”

            “Did I mention that I have a helicopter?” said Roger. “I have a helicopter.”      

            Andrea slammed the car door, then swung backward out of the parking space. “Really.”

            “Okay, I don’t actually _own_ the helicopter. Or pilot it, or fix it, or insure it. But I can get _you_ on that helicopter, and that helicopter can get you over there so you can…” Roger trailed off. “Was that a car door?”

            “Yeah,” Andrea said. “I’m going to get my sister.”

            “Shouldn’t you go…do the thing with the…radio…thing?”

            Andrea made for the exit as quickly as she could without risking an accident. “I…to be honest, I don’t know too much about it.”

            “Okay, _you_ don’t know,” said Roger. “But I bet someone who does. I bet you could give them a call right now!”

            “No, there’s-” She stopped. Yes, there was someone. “There’s…a number I would rather not call unless I _really_ had to.” She pulled out of the parking lot onto the road.

            “Please tell you didn’t plan to follow that with, ‘but this really needs doing, so Roger, _you_ do it’,” he said.

            “That depends,” said Andrea. “How deep do you want to get in weird apocalyptic conspiracies and family drama?”

            “Which is worse?”

            “That’s the true mystery at the heart of everything.” She swung onto the Highway 18 East onramp. “Discovering the answer will he answer be the terrible punchline to a story longer and dumber than life on Earth.”

            “That’s a joke, right?”                                                     

            “Call 212-613-1481. You’re writing this down?”

            “I’m…still not sure if that’s was a joke.”

            Andrea ignored him. She wasn’t sure herself. “When you get an answer on the phone, tell them you’re an emergency addition to the Egbert group, and ask what to do about the transponder.”

            “Emergency addition? To what?” he said. “Who are you having me call?”

            Andrea said nothing.

            “It’s your crazy mad scientist ex-boss, isn’t it.”

            Andrea said nothing again.

            “Shit.”

            “Try mentioning that helicopter,” said Andrea. “It might work better on her.”

            Roger was silent for a moment. “I’ll call you later.”

            “Sure thing, Mr. Roger…whatever your last name is.”

“Not the time for that.” The line went dead.

Andrea pressed sped eastward up the steep slope out of the valley. She tried not to look back, to imagine what the forests and fields and hills might look like in a few hours. Flames. Craters. Ashes. The greens all gone to red and black. Andrea couldn’t stop that, but there was one thing she could still do.

            She could help her sister.

 

_11:52 Seattle, 14:52 New York, 19:52 Oxford, 1:22 Bangalore_


	9. [DAMAGED SEGMENT]

            Roger sat cross-legged on a green swivel chair wearing fuzzy red socks. The odd angle of his glasses made everything seem off-kilter: the wood paneling tilted this way, the radio equipment tilted that way. The topographical map stretched across his desk made a perfect headrest. He glanced at the clock. It was 1:00. He’d been laying here for at least five minutes. Probably more. On a yellow Post-It note inches from his eye was the number he’d written down: 212-613-1481. The same number glowed on his phone, inches from the Post-It note. His arched index finger, brown as the carpet on the floor, rested on the _send_ button.

            He should press it. Val’s sister needed his help so she could help Val, and for that, he had to press it. He didn’t know what she needed him to do. It would probably involve apocalyptic conspiracies, even family drama, but that shouldn’t matter. He should have pressed that button ten minutes ago.

            Roger rocked his finger back and forth. He tilted his head upright so it rested on his chin. He straightened his glasses, scratched his thick moustache, and stared at the phone. The glowing number shone across his faint reflection’s eyes. Sometimes fear was a reasonable thing. In the Ranger service, even a desk jockey like Roger knew that. No matter how big and tough you were, there was always going to be something bigger and tougher out there, and the sanest thing you could do at this point would be to run for your life.

            Of course, any predator would chase you. A wolf would herd you into the rest of its pack. A cougar would just run you down. And if it existed, an apocalyptic conspiracy wouldn’t go away just because he hid from it.

            Roger sat up and took a swig of water from his Nalgene bottle. Then he pressed _send_.

            The phone rang, and kept ringing almost until Roger gave up. “Hello?” said a voice on the other end. It sounded like a young girl, and it definitely wasn’t Andrea’s boss. Well, Roger _hoped_ a young girl wasn’t Andrea’s boss.

            “Hey, you’re not Andrea’s boss, right?”

            “What? Uh…who is this?”

            “Thought so,” said Roger. “Who are you?”

            “You first,” she said. There was a dull roar in the background. Was that traffic?

            “Why me?”                                                                                                 

            “My mom’s making me keep track of like six groups of people,” the girl said. “If you’re not part of one…”

            “Right. I’m Roger.”

            “Roger who?”

            “Roger…” He trailed off. “Wait. Your mom. Does she work at SkaiaNet?”

            The girl said nothing for a moment. “Why’d you call?”

            “Andrea’s adding me to the Egbert group,” said Roger. “He told me to talk to…Elaine, I think?”

            “You’ve got the right number.” Her voice was flat and tight.

            “Can I talk to her?”

            “What did you call to talk about?”

            “Can I talk to her? Please?”

            The girl made a sound like one of those big, exasperated teenage sighs had choked halfway out her mouth. “Hi. I’m Melanie, here to deal with all your _Sburb_ -related woes because my mom is too busy breaking the speed limit to deal with the end of the world.”

            “Uh. I’m Roger?”

            “I know. You already told me. What did you call about?”

            “Well…you know those radio towers you use for the game?

            Melanie remained silent, somehow beckoning him to continue. Weird.

            “One of them has this kind of…problem.”

           

            –

 

            It was 4:30, and Elaine wasn’t back.                         

            Lazy raindrops from the fire escape bounced off Antonio’s umbrella, and the city roared about him. The noise and the chaos of Manhattan helped him think. Maybe it was the stately urban canyons, logical and clean, each building perfect in its own way. He didn’t think too much about it. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and took a slow breath, walking to the street corner. For about ten minutes, he’d got nothing but Elaine’s voicemail. She must have been on one hell of an important call. He could never figure out his wife’s arcane designs, even when she bothered to explain herself. They were layered, abstract. Obnoxious. Antonio stuck to his architecture. It made sense, it was elegant, and he didn’t run the risk of stopping himself from ever having existed.

            The crowd grew denser. Businesspeople, tourists, police, ordinary people shouted, argued, cavorted, and their rage and laughter wove into the city’s song, reverberating from building to building until the damp air almost hummed. Antonio pondered taking a photograph, writing an epitaph, doing _something_ to commemorate New York in its last hours before the end. But it was already done. If there was a photograph to take or an epitaph to write, someone, somewhere in this city would have already done it. He could give it no funeral. But he could give something. A good deed. He could do that.

            He walked around the corner to Chino’s Pizza. ducked under the green awning, and pushed his way in. The bell on the glass dinged, and his feet squeaked on the black-and-white checkered floor.

            “Hey, Tony!” said a big black man behind the counter, pulling a pizza out of the oven. “What do you want?”

            “Art. How’s life?”

             “Life. That’s no kind of pizza I’ve ever heard of.”

            “Three large pepperoni, one large cheese,” said Antonio.

            “That much? Your wife’s back?” said Art, passing the order along.

            Antonio scratched his head and adjusted his purple scarf. “They _should_ be.”

            “Who’s ‘they’?” Art froze, a lump of dough in his hand. “She took Mel, didn’t she?”

            Antonio shrugged and shuffled down to the cash register.

            Art slapped the dough down on the counter before him. “She’s been taking that girl up to God knows where for how long now?” He moved to the register. “How long are you going to let her keep this up?”

            Antonio scratched his head, looked down, and put his hand in his pocket. “Do yourself a favor. Take the rest of the day off, get yourself something nice.”

            “Look, I got no problem when Mara takes the boys out, but she at least tells me, you-:

            Antonio slid his wallet out of his pocket and lay it atop the sneeze guard, right in front of Art. “Trust me.”

            Art gaped at the wallet, then gave Antonio one of the strangest looks he’d ever seen.

            “Go on, check it out,” said Antonio.

            Art peered into the wallet, then snapped it shut. He leaned forward over the counter. “Tony, what’s your game here?”

            Antonio blinked. “Huh?”

            “What are you-”

            “Just take it! You’ll thank me later.”

            “Won’t thank you now. That’s for sure.” Art glanced around the restaurant, then nodded to another employee, who dropped four large pizza boxes on the counter. He held the wallet in his hand just below the counter, not quite in view but not quite hidden.

            “Listen to me! Just take the wallet, spend the rest of the day with your wife, and-”

            “Take your pizza, Tony.”

            Antonio frowned.

            “Go on,” said Art, scowling. “There’s a line behind you.”

            Puzzled, Antonio scooped up all four hot pizza boxes and walked out.

                                         

            –

           

            Roger pressed the phone to his ear and walked out onto the roof. “So what you’re saying is, we’re playing whether we like it or not.”

            “Close enough.”

            “And if we don’t follow the rules, this game’s going to kill us,” he said. A gust of wind slammed the door shut, howling in the phone’s speaker

            “You will have to speak up,” said Elaine. The sound of a girl talking in the background came over the line. “Melanie, I understand the importance of your task, but please be quieter.”

            Roger repeated himself, only with more shouting. This building wasn’t the tallest in Seattle, but it was high enough he could see the Sound to the west and the Valley to the south, and snowy peaks in all directions shone in the afternoon sun. The wind grew stronger, tearing through his light hoodie, chilling his fingertips, and making the radio tower looming above him creak and sway. He pulled his hood up.

            “Yes,” said Elaine. “Though it may kill us anyway.”

            “Uh…does this game have a cheat code?”

            “No.”

            Despite the chill, Roger had to wipe sweat off his palms. He wished Elaine were just a batty old lady, or even a con artist, but that kind of thinking was a trap. When a mysterious figure tells you to run if you want to live, you’d better run. Either they’re right, and running just saved your life, or it’s a trap, in which case they’d probably kill you if you didn’t run anyway. With no good option, Roger would pick the one that held at least the chance of safety. “Come on. There has to be a work-around. A developer’s mode? Something?”

            “There is none.”                            

            “But you designed it!”  
            “Partially. I only constructed the intermediary program between-”

            “Same fucking thing,” muttered Roger.

            “I am sorry,” said Elaine. “Could you repeat that more loudly and clearly? So my daughter can hear?”

            “Uh…how am I going to fix that transponder from way up here?”

            The silence before Elaine spoke had the distinct quality of a smirk. What _was_ it with that family? “Fixing Transponder 0000-0-001 is out of the question with our timeframe. I need you to reroute the signal from the Seattle tower instead.”

            “The one that that makes the game work?”

            “Technically, the game functions absent the Box signal, but loses its capacity to observe and edit reality.”

            “…so it doesn’t work.”

            She hesitated. “Not in most senses of the word.”

            “Okay…uh, Andrea said that this transponder was the most important of them. Why?”

            “It is a central anchor in the causal network upholding the structure of-”

            “Is there a short answer?”

            “No, there…yes. Yes there is,” said Elaine. “If it does not fulfill its function at the appropriate time, causation will retroactively cease.”

            “That sounds…bad,” said Roger. “When is the appropriate time?”

            “Two hours and twenty minutes from now.”

            “And how long will this tower take to fix?”

            “You are a radio operator, correct?”

            Roger nodded, approached the utility box at the base of the tower. It occurred to him after he did that Elaine wouldn’t be able to see him do nod.

            “Assuming for the sake of expediency you know what you are doing, it should not take you more than half an hour.” It was like she knew he’d nodded.

            Roger strode under the radio tower. The thing wasn’t huge, three or four stories at the most, but it was squat and heavy in build. It was easy to see why: the mass of tubes and wires running up and down was dense and complicated, and radio dishes and additional utility boxes hung from its side.

            “Honestly,” continued Elaine, “my own timeframe worries me more than yours.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “I need to get back to New York.”

            “What’s the problem there?”

            “Traffic.”

            “Oh.” Roger froze. “Wait, if the failure of that transponder means that time won’t have ever worked, and we see time working right _now_ , doesn’t that mean that whatever we…er, will have done, worked?”

            “It means that whatever _somebody_ will have done worked. That person may not be us.”

            Roger had a few guesses as to what it would mean if he weren’t the person to fix that tower. Surviving past this evening was not among them. “Uh…why not?”

            “When dealing with predestined events, which is to say, all events, only known outcomes should be taken into account. Because causation exists, we know that in the next few hours _somebody_ will restore that transponder. This leaves us to use the intervening time to either find the culprit or fix it ourselves. I prefer the option that ensures our survival.”

             “So the future is mutable, as long as you don’t know it?” That made sense. It was just like _Dune_.

            “No. But functionally, yes.”

            “You’re showing off, aren’t you?”

            Elaine paused, then continued. “While there is a true, destined sequence of events that we call the Alpha Timeline, I recommend ignoring it altogether. Attempts to take it into account will most likely throw yourself off it in your attempt to avoid doing exactly that.”

            “What’s so special about the Alpha Timeline though?” said Roger. “Why do we want to stay on it?”           

            “Divergent timelines vanish once they lose capacity to influence the Alpha.”

            “So…alternate timelines can influence the Alpha Timeline?”

            “Yes. Objects or people can cross over from the branches to the Alpha, though any that do so will eventually be destroyed.”

            “Huh. How can they cross over to the-”

            “I do not know, and we are wasting time,” said Elaine. “I need you to divert southward this tower’s entire signal so we may use it in Maple Valley.”

            “Wait. Wait. _All_ of it?”

            “Yes.”

            Roger’s thoughts raced. “No, wait. Don’t the people in Seattle need that signal to play?”

            “They will not succeed.”

            “But…if they don’t play that game, they die!” said Roger. “Uh. Right?”

            “That is correct.”

            “Then we can’t just cut them off. We have to let them at least try!”

“If it risks causation,” said Elaine, “we cannot afford them that chance.”

            Roger paced beneath the tower, his mind racing. No. This was not okay, this was _wrong_. He just didn’t know how to change it. His mouth got to it before his mind. “How sure are you?

            “Of what?”

            “That the people in Seattle won’t make it.”

            “I do not follow.”

            “I don’t know how many people in this city got this fucking game, but let’s say that if they have the chance to play, _most_ won’t make it,” Roger said. The wind whistled around him, blowing his hood down over his shoulders. He pulled it back up. “How do you know that _none_ of them will? Can you promise me that?”

            For a long moment, Elaine said nothing. “I do not know that,” she said. “Not for sure.”

            Roger felt his shoulders shake, and his vision started to blur. “And you still want me to just pull the plug on _seven million fucking people_?”

            Elaine was quiet for a long moment. “Do you believe I do not care about the results of this decision?”

            “That’s kind of how it looks from here!”

            “Not from where I stand.” Elaine swallowed, and her breath came hard. “If you believe I would condemn an entire city without reason, if I did not believe that it was completely necessary, I do not…” She took a breath. “Do you think I am a monster?”

            Roger didn’t answer that. He didn’t know the answer.

            “You wanted a promise,” said Elaine. “I will give you one. If I am a monster, I am a monster of logic. I would never do _that_.”

            Roger stood more still than the transponder tower. What had Andrea been into that she would work with people like this?

            Elaine spoke slowly. “I understand…I understand your hesitation to…to do he thing I asked you to do. However, for reasons I wish I more fully understood, the fabric of the universe appears to hinge on the game that a certain boy in Maple Valley will play today.” She took a slow breath. “The boy’s name is John Egbert. Your friend Valerie is his aunt.”

             Roger’s entire body tightened. His breath grew hard and fast and ragged, and the world seemed to spin around him. He sat down on the rooftop, wobbled, then collapsed on his back. This was all a bit convenient. Maybe Elaine was being honest with him. Maybe this boy’s game was as important as she said. And maybe she was just trying to take a few friends and escape using the game, everyone else be fucked.

            “Hello?” said Elaine.

            “One qu-question.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. That was new.

            Elaine paused. She seemed to indicate for him to continue. Just like her daughter.

             “Who will get to use the signal?” Roger asked.

            “It is primarily for the use of John Egbert,” said Elaine. “But I had planned to grant access to Valerie and Andrea. And you, of course.”

            So that’s how it was. “Fuck that,” Roger said, and ended the call.

 

_13:55 Seattle, 16:55 New York, 21:55 Oxford, 3:25 Bangalore_


	10. All others died. (Frag. 9)

            Roger sat cross-legged on a green swivel chair wearing fuzzy red socks. The odd angle of his glasses made everything seem off-kilter: the wood paneling tilted this way, the radio equipment tilted that way. The topographical map stretched across his desk made a perfect headrest. He glanced at the clock. It was 1:00. He’d been laying here for at least five minutes. Probably more. On a yellow Post-It note inches from his eye was the number he’d written down: 212-613-1481. The same number glowed on his phone, inches from the Post-It note. His arched index finger, brown as the carpet on the floor, rested on the _send_ button.

            He should press it. Val’s sister needed his help so she could help Val, and for that, he had to press it. He didn’t know what she needed him to do. It would probably involve apocalyptic conspiracies, even family drama, but that shouldn’t matter. He should have pressed that button ten minutes ago.

            Roger rocked his finger back and forth. He tilted his head upright so it rested on his chin. He straightened his glasses, scratched his thick moustache, and stared at the phone. The glowing number shone across his faint reflection’s eyes. Sometimes fear was a reasonable thing. In the Ranger service, even a desk jockey like Roger knew that. No matter how big and tough you were, there was always going to be something bigger and tougher out there, and the sanest thing you could do at this point would be to run for your life.

            Of course, any predator would chase you. A wolf would herd you into the rest of its pack. A cougar would just run you down. And if it existed, an apocalyptic conspiracy wouldn’t go away just because he hid from it.

            Roger sat up and took a swig of water from his Nalgene bottle. Then he pressed _send_.

            The phone rang, and kept ringing almost until Roger gave up. “Hello?” said a voice on the other end. It sounded like a young girl, and it definitely wasn’t Andrea’s boss. Well, Roger _hoped_ a young girl wasn’t Andrea’s boss.

            “Hey, you’re not Andrea’s boss, right?”

            “What? Uh…who is this?”

            “Thought so,” said Roger. “Who are you?”

            “You first,” she said. There was a dull roar in the background. Was that traffic?

            “Why me?”                                                                                                 

            “My mom’s making me keep track of like six groups of people,” the girl said. “If you’re not part of one…”

            “Right. I’m Roger.”

            “Roger who?”

            “Roger…” He trailed off. “Wait. Your mom. Does she work at SkaiaNet?”

            The girl said nothing for a moment. “Why’d you call?”

            “Andrea’s adding me to the Egbert group,” said Roger. “He told me to talk to…Elaine, I think?”

            “You’ve got the right number.” Her voice was flat and tight.

            “Can I talk to her?”

            “What did you call to talk about?”

            “Can I talk to her? Please?”

            The girl made a sound like one of those big, exasperated teenage sighs had choked halfway out her mouth. “Hi. I’m Melanie, here to deal with all your _Sburb_ -related woes because my mom is too busy breaking the speed limit to deal with the end of the world.”

            “Uh. I’m Roger?”

            “I know. You already told me. What did you call about?”

            “Well…you know those radio towers you use for the game?

            Melanie remained silent, somehow beckoning him to continue. Weird.

            “One of them has this kind of…problem.”

           

            –

 

            It was 4:45, and Elaine wasn’t back.

            Lazy raindrops from the fire escape bounced off Antonio’s umbrella, and the city roared about him. The noise and the chaos of Manhattan helped him think. Maybe it was the stately urban canyons, logical and clean, each building perfect in its own way. He didn’t think too much about it. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and took a slow breath, walking to the street corner. For about ten minutes, he’d got nothing but Elaine’s voicemail. She must have been on one hell of an important call. He could never figure out his wife’s arcane designs, even when she bothered to explain herself. They were layered, abstract. Obnoxious. Antonio stuck to his architecture. It made sense, it was elegant, and he didn’t run the risk of stopping himself from ever having existed.

            The crowd grew denser. Businesspeople, tourists, police, ordinary people shouted, argued, cavorted, and their rage and laughter wove into the city’s song, reverberating from building to building until the damp air almost hummed. Antonio pondered taking a photograph, writing an epitaph, doing _something_ to commemorate New York in its last hours before the end. But it was already done. If there was a photograph to take or an epitaph to write, someone, somewhere in this city would have already done it. He could give it no funeral. But he could give something. A good deed. He could do that.

            He walked around the corner to Chino’s Pizza. ducked under the green awning, and pushed his way in. The bell on the glass dinged, and his feet squeaked on the black-and-white checkered floor.

            “Hey, Tony!” said a big black man behind the counter, pulling a pizza out of the oven. “What do you want?”

            “Art. How’s life?”

             “Life. That’s no kind of pizza I’ve ever heard of.”

            “Three large pepperoni, one large cheese,” said Antonio.

            “That much? Your wife’s back?” said Art, passing the order along.

            Antonio scratched his head and adjusted his purple scarf. “They _should_ be.”

            “Who’s ‘they’?” Art froze, a lump of dough in his hand. “She took Mel, didn’t she?”

            Antonio shrugged and shuffled down to the cash register.

            Art slapped the dough down on the counter before him. “She’s been taking that girl up to God knows where for how long now?” He moved to the register. “How long are you going to let her keep this up?”

            Antonio scratched his head, looked down, and put his hand in his pocket. “Do yourself a favor. Take the rest of the day off, get yourself something nice.”

            “Look, I got no problem when Mara takes the boys out, but she at least tells me, you-:

            Antonio slid his wallet out of his pocket and lay it atop the sneeze guard, right in front of Art. “Trust me.”

            Art gaped at the wallet, then gave Antonio one of the strangest looks he’d ever seen.

            “Go on, check it out,” said Antonio.

            Art peered into the wallet, then snapped it shut. He leaned forward over the counter. “Tony, what’s your game here?”

            Antonio blinked. “Huh?”

            “What are you-”

            “Just take it! You’ll thank me later.”

            “Won’t thank you now. That’s for sure.” Art glanced around the restaurant, then nodded to another employee, who dropped four large pizza boxes on the counter. He held the wallet in his hand just below the counter, not quite in view but not quite hidden.

            “Listen to me! Just take the wallet, spend the rest of the day with your wife, and-”

            “Take your pizza, Tony.”

            Antonio frowned.

            “Go on,” said Art, scowling. “There’s a line behind you.”

            Puzzled, Antonio scooped up all four hot pizza boxes and walked out.

 

            –

           

            Roger pressed the phone to his ear and walked out onto the roof. “So what you’re saying is, we’re playing whether we like it or not.”

            “Close enough.”

            “And if we don’t follow the rules, this game’s going to kill us,” he said. A gust of wind slammed the door shut, howling in the phone’s speaker

            “You will have to speak up,” said Elaine. The sound of a girl talking in the background came over the line. “Melanie, I understand the importance of your task, but please be quieter.”

            Roger repeated himself, only with more shouting. This building wasn’t the tallest in Seattle, but it was high enough he could see the Sound to the west and the Valley to the south, and snowy peaks in all directions shone in the afternoon sun. The wind grew stronger, tearing through his light hoodie, chilling his fingertips, and making the radio tower looming above him creak and sway. He pulled his hood up.

            “Yes,” said Elaine. “Though it may kill us anyway.”

            “Uh…does this game have a cheat code?”

            “No.”

            Despite the chill, Roger had to wipe sweat off his palms. He wished Elaine were just a batty old lady, or even a con artist, but that kind of thinking was a trap. When a mysterious figure tells you to run if you want to live, you’d better run. Either they’re right, and running just saved your life, or it’s a trap, in which case they’d probably kill you if you didn’t run anyway. With no good option, Roger would pick the one that held at least the chance of safety. “Come on. There has to be a work-around. A developer’s mode? Something?”

            “There is none.”                            

            “But you designed it!”  
            “Partially. I only constructed the intermediary program between-”

            “Same fucking thing,” muttered Roger.

            “I am sorry,” said Elaine. “Could you repeat that more loudly and clearly? So my daughter can hear?”

            “Uh…how am I going to fix that transponder from way up here?”

            The silence before Elaine spoke had the distinct quality of a smirk. What _was_ it with that family? “Fixing Transponder 0000-0-001 is out of the question with our timeframe. I need you to reroute the signal from the Seattle tower instead.”

            “The one that that makes the game work?”

            “Technically, the game functions absent the Box signal, but loses its capacity to observe and edit reality.”

            “…so it doesn’t work.”

            She hesitated. “Not in most senses of the word.”

            “Okay…uh, Andrea said that this transponder was the most important of them. Why?”

            “It is a central anchor in the causal network upholding the structure of-”

            “Is there a short answer?”

            “No, there…yes. Yes there is,” said Elaine. “If it does not fulfill its function at the appropriate time, causation will retroactively cease.”

            “That sounds…bad,” said Roger. “When is the appropriate time?”

            “Two hours and twenty-eight minutes from now.”

            “And how long will this tower take to fix?”

            “You are a radio operator, correct?”

            Roger nodded, approached the utility box at the base of the tower. It occurred to him after he did that Elaine wouldn’t be able to see him do nod.

            “Assuming for the sake of expediency you know what you are doing, it should not take you more than half an hour.” It was like she knew he’d nodded.

            Roger strode under the radio tower. The thing wasn’t huge, three or four stories at the most, but it was squat and heavy in build. It was easy to see why: the mass of tubes and wires running up and down was dense and complicated, and radio dishes and additional utility boxes hung from its side.

            “Honestly,” continued Elaine, “my own timeframe worries me more than yours.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “I need to get back to New York.”

            “What’s the problem there?”

            “Traffic.”

            “Oh.” Roger froze. “Wait, if the failure of that transponder means that time won’t have ever worked, and we see time working right _now_ , doesn’t that mean that whatever we…er, will have done, worked?”

            “It means that whatever _somebody_ will have done worked. That person may not be us.”

            Roger had a few guesses as to what it would mean if he weren’t the person to fix that tower. Surviving past this evening was not among them. “Uh…why not?”

            “When dealing with predestined events, which is to say, all events, only known outcomes should be taken into account. Because causation exists, we know that in the next few hours _somebody_ will restore that transponder. This leaves us to use the intervening time to either find the culprit or fix it ourselves. I prefer the option that ensures our survival.”

             “So the future is mutable, as long as you don’t know it?” That made sense. It was just like _Dune_.

            “No. But functionally, yes.”

            “You’re showing off, aren’t you?”

            Elaine paused, then continued. “While there is a true, destined sequence of events that we call the Alpha Timeline, I recommend ignoring it altogether. Attempts to take it into account will most likely throw yourself off it in your attempt to avoid doing exactly that.”

            “What’s so special about the Alpha Timeline though?” said Roger. “Why do we want to stay on it?”           

            “Divergent timelines vanish once they lose capacity to influence the Alpha.”

            “So…alternate timelines can influence the Alpha Timeline?”

            “Yes. Objects or people can cross over from the branches to the Alpha, though any that do so will eventually be destroyed.”

            “Huh. How can they cross over to the-”

            “I do not know, and we are wasting time,” said Elaine. “I need you to divert southward this tower’s entire signal so we may use it in Maple Valley.”

            “Wait. Wait. _All_ of it?”

            “Yes.”

            Roger’s thoughts raced. “No, wait. Don’t the people in Seattle need that signal to play?”

            “They will not succeed.”

            “But…if they don’t play that game, they die!” said Roger. “Uh. Right?”

            “That is correct.”

            “Then we can’t just cut them off. We have to let them at least try!”

“If it risks causation,” said Elaine, “we cannot afford them that chance.”

            Roger paced beneath the tower, his mind racing. No. This was not okay, this was _wrong_. He just didn’t know how to change it. His mouth got to it before his mind. “How sure are you?

            “Of what?”

            “That the people in Seattle won’t make it.”

            “I do not follow.”

            “I don’t know how many people in this city got this fucking game, but let’s say that if they have the chance to play, _most_ won’t make it,” Roger said. The wind whistled around him, blowing his hood down over his shoulders. He pulled it back up. “How do you know that _none_ of them will? Can you promise me that?”

            For a long moment, Elaine said nothing. “I do not know that,” she said. “Not for sure.”

            Roger felt his shoulders shake, and his vision started to blur. “And you still want me to just pull the plug on _seven million fucking people_?”

            Elaine was quiet for a long moment. “Do you believe I do not care about the results of this decision?”

            “That’s kind of how it looks from here!”

            “Not from where I stand.” Elaine swallowed, and her breath came hard. “If you believe I would condemn an entire city without reason, if I did not believe that it was completely necessary, I do not…” She took a breath. “Do you think I am a monster?”

            Roger didn’t answer that. He didn’t know the answer.

            “You wanted a promise,” said Elaine. “I will give you one. If I am a monster, I am a monster of logic. I would never do _that_.”

            Roger stood more still than the transponder tower. What had Andrea been into that she would work with people like this?

            Elaine spoke slowly. “I understand…I understand your hesitation to…to do he thing I asked you to do. However, for reasons I wish I more fully understood, the fabric of the universe appears to hinge on the game that a certain boy in Maple Valley will play today.” She took a slow breath. “The boy’s name is John Egbert. Your friend Valerie is his aunt.”

             Roger’s entire body tightened. His breath grew hard and fast and ragged, and the world seemed to spin around him. He sat down on the rooftop, wobbled, then collapsed on his back. This was all a bit convenient. Maybe Elaine was being honest with him. Maybe this boy’s game was as important as she said. And maybe she was just trying to take a few friends and escape using the game, everyone else be fucked.

            “Hello?” said Elaine.

            “One qu-question.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. That was new.

            Elaine paused. She seemed to indicate for him to continue. Just like her daughter.

             “Who will get to use the signal?” Roger asked.

            “It is primarily for the use of John Egbert,” said Elaine. “But I had planned to grant access to Valerie and Andrea. And you, of course.”

            So that’s how it was. “Fuck that,” Roger said, and ended the call.


	11. All but us. (Frag. 10)

            Slowly, Martin rested the phone in its cradle on the tiled kitchen wall, and Maria put her hand over his.

            “That was the last of them, wasn’t it?” she said, clasping his hand between them.

            Martin nodded. “Two. We got _two_.”

            “That’s more than I thought possible,” said Maria, smiling as if it were a good thing.

            “ _Two_. Out of an entire-”

            “Two is _good_. I believed it impossible to save any _._ ” There was such compassion on her face.

            “Yes, it is,” said Martin faster than he thought. “It means you were wrong, there’s nothing against saving my students, and that means we can-”

            “It means only that I may have presumed too much upon what foreknowledge I have.”

            “And what happens in the time between now and when we enter this game is unknown. I believe that means you were wrong.”

            “No. It …alright, it opens that possibility. I can’t dismiss that it’s possible you might somehow get them all to this house just before time’s up and use it as a sort of ark.”

            “Yes. That’s precisely-”

            “I _also_ can’t dismiss that one of them might be slain by a meteor, or sleep through the start of the game, or be halfway up to York by now.”

            An image of Charlie Baker, whose family had planned to take him to York this weekend, flashed through Martin’s head.

            “Besides,” continued Maria, “we need to prepare, and I need your help.”

            “But we could…” Martin stopped. Maria was right. He could find no rebuttal. He took a breath. “If there’s any spare time, I’d like to make a few calls.”

            “Of course,” said Maria. She clasped his hands tight once more. “Come here.” She pulled him close and wrapped her arms about him, and kissed his neck, slow and soft. As always, there was a deep hunger in her kisses that drove her forward, pulling him too close, letting go a moment too late. From anyone else, it would too much, indeed there was a time when it had been: those early years when she would pull him too close, when he would push away, but twenty years later it was a signature of her touch, so familiar and comfortable that anything else might seem alien. She pulled him tighter still, pressing his face into her iron-grey hair. It was thick and a bit frizzy, and it tickled his nose, and like always, it was worth it.

            Martin sucked in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, focusing his mind, Maria’s embrace stabilizing him. He stifled a sneeze. Though she had explained them to him, the jumble of images racing through his brain, vague and half-formed: fire raining from portals in the sky, allies from around the world, punch-card mechanisms, a digital clock, always ticking down to zero. There might well be a logic to this game, but trying to find it was a trap. When he fenced, the world was small. There was only the present, the realm of steps and breaths and steel on steel, and the moment after, where thought and impulse spun infinite potential into just a few possibilities. A choice, and its consequence. A step, and the next. True, there were patterns, a logic to the bout, but that was for the audience to see. For the fencer, to look past the immediate was to risk hesitation, a non-choice, which only lead to one possibility.

            Martin opened his eyes.                   

            He looked up at the clock. It was two hours until midnight, a bit more than that until the start. “You’re right. We should prepare.”

            Maria pulled back and studied his face, recognized the focus there, and nodded approval. “You’re ready?”

            “Yes. It’s time to…er, what needs to be done?”

            Maria looked down in thought, making her features seem sharper, more aware. “Most of it’s done and ready, but we need Mr. Timbal to give us the go-ahead before we can do any real set-up.” She broke from his arms and leaned on the counter. “Before that, I have some equipment to prepare.” She led Martin down the hall and through the cellar door. Martin flipped the light as they descended the concrete staircase, and warm light blossomed from the naked bulb, chasing shadows into the corners to reveal a room full of boxes, crates, tools, and more boxes. Of everything down here, only small stack of old luggage in the corner belonged to him. The wooden crates, leftovers from Maria’s time at SkaiaNet, didn’t look like they’d been touched since Martin and Maria had moved here fifteen years ago. That made sense; Maria kept most everything she needed for her work in her office at Reading. She had never said much about what was in these crates, and Martin left her to her secrets.

            Maria knelt down beside a box and drew a three-foot crowbar, obviously struggling with its weight. She quite pleased with herself until it began to wobble in her grasp.

            Martin placed a hand on the crowbar, stabilizing it. “Shall I?”

            Maria sucked in a short breath, then sneezed, dust blowing in the lamplight. “Please. All these years in academia haven’t done wonders for my strength.”

            “You carry books, don’t you? And priceless, heavy artifacts.” He nodded toward the kitchen, where those stone tablets of hers still lay on the table.

            “That’s why we have teaching assistants,” Maria said, offering the crowbar.

            To Maria’s credit, the crowbar wasn’t exactly light. She led him to a wide, low crate pressed flush against the wall and nodded, and Martin jammed the crowbar into a groove on the top. He heaved, and nothing happened. The crate was remarkably sturdy, made of good, thick wood and fastened with screws instead of nails. After a few minutes and a screwdriver, he got it open. Packed tight inside with shaped foam pads at the edges was a matte-grey metal locker, no, a chest, with a combination lock built into the latch. Maria fiddled with until it clicked, and the lid cracked open.

            The chest, too, had foam padding along the inside walls, and inside, neatly stacked, were very serious-looking oblong cases made of black molded plastic. Each was about two feet by eight inches, with two latches to keep it shut and a handle for easy carrying. They were in four stacks, each one five or six cases deep, judging by the chest’s depth.

            Martin had an idea what they were, and he suspected it wasn’t a shipment of sabres. “SkaiaNet…it’s an American company, isn’t it?”

            Maria leaned down to pick up a case. She placed it atop another crate and began to unlatch it. “The way you timed that question seems almost apropos.” From within the case, cradled in even more foam padding, was the dull gleam of a barrel painted black.

           

            –

                                                      

            Secretly, Shafti did not wear the skirt.

            It was so much easier to simply drape it the long shift she wore to bed, just like a blanket.  Putting on a skirt was a major affair when you couldn’t move your legs, and she hadn’t had that kind of time. It was best this way. Having excuse to avoid those old-style skirts Grandmother made almost made up for her legs. Okay, it didn’t make up for them at all, but it was still nice. Chiran didn’t notice Shafti wasn’t actually wearing the skirt. Grandmother would have noticed if she got a look, which is why Shafti was sure to get into the car before Grandmother was out of the house. She’d only had time to collect her phone, laptop, and a single bag of candied anise on the way out. With Chiran nearly falling asleep on his feet, Grandmother had taken charge and driven them back to the SkyAir offices. With Chiran dozing in the front seat, Shafti had looked up and read off directions from the back, munching her anise absently.

            The digital clock glowing green in the cab read 3:28 when they stopped with a lurch. The drive had been far shorter than Shafti remembered. The roads were clear, but even so…as she removed her seatbelt, Shafti tried not to think of how fast Grandmother must have driven. She removed her seatbelt and opened the door. It hung open. _Good door._ Doors were all terrible, but as doors went, car doors were some of the least bad. They had the courtesy to stay open when you opened them. Self-closing doors, like the doors in a hospital, were the worst. You had to brace yourself so you could pull the handle, then heave them open and launch yourself through. Half the time they would _still_ close and you’d be caught with one wheel stuck against the door and the other against the frame. Shafti lifted her collapsing wheelchair out from its spot beneath her useless legs and planted it on the pavement outside the car. With a bit of awkward twisting and jiggling, she expanded it into full wheelchair shape and tucked the table attachment under the seat. She scooted left until she was just on the edge of the car seat, then swung her knees into the gap between the car and the wheelchair. Grasping the solid edges of the car door and taking a moment to judge the distance, she heaved herself out of the car, arcing right over the wheelchair’s arm and landing in its seat. Perfect. Just like the pole vault.

            After securing her bag to the chair, Shafti wheeled herself to the portable metal ramp laid over the short stairway to the building’s entrance, with Grandmother and Chiran climbing the stairs ahead of her. April was the hottest month here, the air thick and muggy, and by the time she reached the ramp she was already sweating. Ramps like this were almost as terrible as self-closing doors; not only were they steep and nauseatingly unstable, they _bounced_ as you moved, not a lot, but just enough that if Shafti moved any faster than a snail it might flip her, chair and all, right off the side. Moving slowly wasn’t easy either, because on a ramp this steep you had to keep up some good momentum or risk stalling and rolling backward. Grandmother and Chiran waited for her at the top of the steps, mere feet ahead. Shafti opened her mouth to ask one of them for help, then glanced at Grandmother and thought better of it.

            With a grunt of effort, Shafti started to heave herself, one push at a time, toward the entrance. The building was wide and flat and unmarked except for SkyAir’s logo, a neon-green cloud above the door. She had never been inside. Shortly after Alok and Chiran had founded the company, back when she still went to school, she’d asked Chiran to take her on a tour during a break. It would be a day trip. It would be fun. Chiran had refused. Alok had been fine with showing her at first, excited even, but on the day he was to bring her, he’d cancelled at the last moment. Over a _text message_. She was furious, and became even more so when she found they were hiding something. Not telling her wasn’t just insulting, it was _stupid_.  Even as children, when little Chiran led the older Alok into trouble, they had never been able to keep a secret, not from her. They could never hide the fact that they were up to something, and Shafti could always, eventually, find it out. Just like Mom had.

            Shafti pushed harder, the rage of that day driving her. The ramp wobbled beneath her, but she didn’t care. She’d started digging, and all too soon she found a connection between her brothers’ company and that American software firm, SkaiaNet. She had been perplexed. Rumors about SkaiaNet and its alleged game _Sburb_ had been bouncing around the gaming community for as long as the community had existed. _Sburb_ was advertised as a breakthrough, a miracle, but years of development had turned it into a joke, spurred by its increasingly outlandish advertisements. _Sburb_ could remodel your house. _Sburb_ could combine real-life items to create something new. _Sburb_ could create a portal to a new dimension. SkaiaNet’s very existence seemed like absurd prank played on the entire world economy: despite global reach and massive expenditures, it had never produced a single product. It didn’t even seem to have a source of income. It had invested heavily in a number of baked-goods companies, but given its tendency to support them through spectacularly bad luck, it clearly wasn’t in it for the money.

            Then, just days later, came the car crash. It took Shafti’s parents and her legs, and gave her the one thing she needed least of all: time to think. Trying not think of her own life, with the computer as her only window to the outside, she started to look into _Sburb_. Days became weeks, and poking around became research, then investigation. And after three years of inquiry and lurking on message boards, of self-taught crash courses on international business and data compilation and synthesis and _far_ too many spreadsheets, the search had led her right back here. To this unassuming corporate park right in the suburbs of Bangalore, which, three years ago, her brothers had refused to let her see. Cresting the top of the ramp, she halted beside Grandmother, munching a few anise seeds. Chiran stood by, ready to open the door in. Whatever she would find beyond those doors would be completely outside her realm of experience. It would be wild and new and terrifying.

            Grandmother nodded, and Chiran opened the door.

            Wild, it wasn’t.

            Shafti didn’t know what she had expected, but the atrium of the SkyAir building failed to live up to it. It was cramped and shallow, and the reception desk that took up too much space out of the middle was just as bland as the room itself. Uncomfortable-looking couches lined the walls, and in each corner was a potted plant, obviously fake. The doors were self-closing, and would have caught her on the way if Chiran weren’t there to hold them. She thanked him with a nod.

            “I never liked this foyer,” said Grandmother. She walked around the reception desk and down the hall. She moved confidently, like she knew the place. “Chiran. Once this ends, please change it.”

            “I will, Grandmother,” muttered Chiran.

            Already partway down the hall, Grandmother turned and cocked her head. _Speak clearly_ , the gesture said.

            “I will,” enunciated Chiran.

            Once Grandmother was far enough ahead of her and Chiran, Shafti whispered, “So you let her visit, but not me?”

            “Have you ever tried saying no to her?”

            “Yes! Very-” Grandmother glanced back down the hall. Shafti’s voice must have carried. “Very often, in fact,” she whispered.

            “Does it ever work?”

            “…sometimes.”

            “I’m impressed. Tell me, when has it worked for you?”

            “Well…the other day she tried to take away my anise seeds.”

            Chiran did not look impressed.

             “You don’t have to spend all day around her. It’s worse than…” Shafti shook her head. It wasn’t the time for this discussion. She didn’t know if that time would ever come. “Just push me, alright?”

            “Why didn’t you ask for help outside? That ramp didn’t look easy.”

            Shafti hesitated, then nodded toward Grandmother, now a good way down the hall. “Her. Watching.”

            “So when I cave to her, it’s a crime, but can’t even let yourself look weak when she’s around.” He took hold of the handles, glancing down at her. “ _Weaker_ , I mean.” He realized what he had said, and his mouth slammed shut as if to catch the words on the way out.

            He was too late.                                                                   

            _A hot day, sun behind a cloud bright in the car’s backseat, bright against the rain-wet pavement. Mom and Dad talking in the front. Shafti ignoring them, tapping her feet, impatient. Slow traffic today. Sun flashing against one windshield after another, little suns in the afternoon haze, barely moving. Minutes pass. A light shower. An intersection. Green light. The sky clears. A little sun in the sea of other little suns, moving on the left. Not slow. Shafti sees, but doesn’t realize. Mom and Dad don’t see. Shafti looks again. Realizes. Shouts. Too late._

            _A wrenching pain, a flash. Then black, and after, a slow pain, far worse. Loss. Shame. Isolation. And words, over and over._ Useless. Burden. Fat. Weak. Cripple. _Over and over and over, those words, shouted by some, hidden by the platitudes of others. Reminders great and small that she would never be what she was. Never, never, ever._

_She hated those words. And she hated that they could reduce her to_ this.

Hands shaking, world spinning, tilting around her, Shafti still managed to look up at Chiran. His face held nothing but guilt. Somehow, that made it even worse.

Chiran opened his mouth long before he spoke. “Shafti, I-”

            “ _Did you have to?_ ” Shafti heard her voice shout. Somehow she found herself speeding down the hall, arms pushing her wheels madly forward. She was probably crying, and she didn’t care if Grandmother saw.

 

            _14:05 Seattle, 17:05 New York, 22:05 Oxford, 3:35 Bangalore_


	12. We were disregarded, (Frag. 11)

            Nicole Petros Egbert slammed open the broad pastry oven, filling the air in the kitchen with steam and the scent of fresh-baked lemon cupcakes. She drew out the baking sheet, whirled around, and set it to cool, then slid to the left. She picked up the next baking sheet, its little wells all full of chocolate batter ready to bake, and put it in the oven. That batch would be ready at 2:40, half an hour from now.

            Chocolate cupcakes were Andrea’s favorite, Nicole knew. From time to time she’d smuggle a batch or two home, which wasn’t really necessary because she owned the baker and they were technically her cupcakes in the first place, but by the time she realized that it was already a tradition. Nicole would sneak the cupcakes home in a thermal bag, still scorching hot. Andrea would already be home, as she always was, so Nicole would inside and spring them upon her. Andrea would jump back in surprise, almost always fake, then thank her with a smile and take a slow bite, crumbs falling from her lips. By the end of the hour, the crumbs would be gone, and by the next night, so would the cupcakes. Nicole liked those nights, and she had it on good authority that Andrea did too.

            Nicole spun around and plopped herself down on one of the stools by the counter. The kitchen was vacant except for her. She’d closed the shop for today, every shop in the entire Cascade Cupcakes chain, and even given a hefty bonus to each employee, because with the world set to end today, why bother opening a bakery? Ms. Timbal had been very clear about the boundaries of this plan: nobody new could know about it unless there was danger to the plan itself. Those were the orders, and while Nicole pushed them, eking out better wages and benefits for her employees, hiring more staff than she needed, she didn’t break them. That would be dangerous. Though Ms. Timbal wouldn’t let her add her employees to the plan, the least she could do was to let them take the day off, relax, spend some time with their families. She’d _planned_ to take the day off herself and spend a few hours relaxing with her wife, but _noooo_ , Andrea was too stodgy and dedicated and interested in poking around inside people’s brains to see a come-on staring her in the face.

            Nicole popped a cupcake out of the pan, almost burning her hands, and bit into it, almost burning her lips. The thin outer crust _crunched_ between her teeth, and even the steam rising from the soft interior was sweet and lemony. With a _slurp_ and a _chomp_ she put the whole cupcake in her mouth and wandered into the office in the side of the kitchen, a cramped room smaller not much bigger than a closet. _Where was it, where was it, where was it today?_ She checked under the desk, in the little compartment in the seat of the chair, in the ceiling, and behind the desk before she saw the large red ledger on the bookshelf. She drew it … _nope_. This was a fake copy, one of several each shop held to protect from CrockerCorp’s prying. There was a computer in the room, but the information there was all fake. Electronic records were convenient, but stealing them was a piece of cake, and if your records were _networked_? Might as well give your shipping manifests to the Seattle Times. Granted, most bakeries didn’t _need_ data security, but most bakeries didn’t engage in covert financial warfare against a sinister baked-goods corporation. At Cascade Cupcakes, anything significant was done by hand. That was Nicole’s rule back when she’d first won seed money from SkaiaNet, and that was her rule now. SkaiaNet’s support came under the condition that she compete with CrockerCorp, which wasn’t known to be a safe endeavor. Without her precautions Cascade Cupcakes would have long since been taken over or crushed like so many other challengers to CrockerCorp. Doughtime. Entenmann’s. English’s Pastries. What CrockerCorp did to English’s still made Nicole shudder. Nobody deserved that.

            Nicole kept searching the office and found three more identical ledgers: one in the safe, one tucked under the floorboards, and one slipped inside the extra space in the computer. The real ledger was in the wall, inside secret compartment in the base of the hidden gun locker. Moving her shotgun aside and leaning it against the wall, she took all five ledgers and placed them on the desk, making sure to keep the real one separate. Even Nicole couldn’t tell them apart at a glance: the only differences were a few key errors here and there that only someone who knew the business in and out could catch.

            Nicole thought she might miss this ledger, the real one, most of all. Hidden in its rows and columns was the story of her secret war, a memorial of sorts for everyone at Cascade Cupcakes who fought it with her. For a moment, she considered taking it over to the oven and burning it, then thought better. That ledger _meant_ something. Burning it might symbolize moving forward, it might give her a moment of solace, a sense of purification, but a moment later she would realize she had just destroyed the story of hundreds, employees and friends, coded in numbers that only she could understand. No moment of drama was worth that.

            _Beeeeeep._

It was the door buzzer. Before Nicole knew it, she had flipped the ledger on the ground, leapt up, and grabbed her shotgun.

            A fraction of a second later, it continued: _Beep. Beeeeeep. Beep._

Nicole’s arm relaxed. It was Morse code, and she was pretty sure she recognized it.          

 _Beep. Beeeeeep._ Pause. _Beeeeeep. Beep._ Pause. _Beeeeeep. Beep. Beep._

Nicole’s arm relaxed, followed by her entire body. Flipping the safety on, she rose from the chair and headed back into the kitchen. The tones continued, and with each correct letter in the Morse sequence, Nicole moved quicker and quicker toward the front of the shop, almost running, almost forgetting to pause and set the gun down and nearly tripping over her own feet on the waxed floor as she slammed the front door open to wrap Andrea in her arms and kiss her before she could punch the final E of _CANDYCANE_ into the buzzer. Andrea started to return the kiss, froze, then picked Nicole up by the armpits and held her at arm’s length, firm and graceful. Andrea’s entire family were all strong, her brother _freakishly_ so, but Andrea herself moved with such restraint and confidence Nicole sometimes forgot.

            “You’re early,” said Nicole. She stared into Andrea’s blue, blue eyes and forgot whatever else she’d planned to say. Andrea look stressed, dazed, but h. “I’m sorry,” continued Nicole, “the, uh, cupcakes I made you aren’t ready, but I have a batch of lemon-flavored ones. They smell great, and…” Tearing her gaze from Andrea’s face, she glimpsed over her shoulder and through her cascade of curly black hair a stretcher held atop a cart, and on the stretcher was a head of hair much like Andrea’s only red, and a body much like Andrea’s only thinner and very very pale, worryingly pale, and she was in a hospital gown and…oh. Oh no. Andrea’s sister Valerie did not look good at all. At all. Nicole glanced to Andrea, then glanced inside the shop. It was all the signal they needed. Nicole darted off to clear space in the kitchen while Andrea pushed Valerie inside. In just a minute, Valerie’s stretcher was parked in the kitchen right next to the countertop where Nicole had set the batch of lemon cupcakes out to cool.

            “Dear,” said Andrea, her voice tense, “is it really time for- _mmmph!_ ”

            Skipping forward, Nicole wrapped one arm round Andrea’s waist, and with her other hand, stuffed the cupcake she’d hidden behind her back in Andrea’s mouth.

            “Yesh,” said Andrea. “Ith delishouth, buth Val ith- _mmmmph!_ “

            Standing on tip toes and tilting her head upward, Nicole planted a firm kiss right on top of the cupcake. It tasted of lemons and Andrea, and she couldn’t imagine a better flavor. Andrea froze once more, but just for a moment, then relaxed, her entire body seeming to melt downward.  After awhile, Andrea started chewing her cupcake, then pulled back just a bit, her face far enough from Nicole’s to speak, but close enough that their noses still almost touched. She swallowed and sighed. “I needed that.”

            Nicole smiled, glad that her skin was dark enough she wouldn’t blush. She nodded toward Valerie. “What happened?”

            “Meteor.”                            

            The lemon cupcake froze solid Nicole’s stomach. The game was set to start in two hours, and they _said_ some of the meteors would show up early. She’d expected this. She knew it was coming, she should be calm. The claws of ice that threatened to burst from her belly weren’t _real_ , because if Andrea saw them, she’d be afraid too, so they couldn’t be. She could be calm.  “That makes sense,” said Nicole. It was her leader-voice, the solid voice that told others to be solid too.

            “Yes, I knew, but…I don’t know, I didn’t want to believe it was really going to happen.”

            Nicole nodded, squeezing her hand, breathing to keep her own hands from shaking.         

            Andrea glanced toward Valerie, then hung her head. “Ms. Timbal once told me _Sburb_ has a sense of humor, a _nasty_ one.” She licked a crumb off her lips. “Just like the Greek gods. She said if you doubted it, even for a moment, it would twist the whole world around just to hurtyou.”  
            Nicole couldn’t think of anything to say to that. She knew next to nothing about _Sburb_. She wasn’t even part of SkaiaNet, technically. All she could do was be there, watching Andrea watch Valerie. They were both tall, with light-tan skin and fine features impossible to assign to one ethnicity or another, Valerie athletic and trim and Andrea round and plump. On any other day, each was as beautiful as the other, and Valerie’s wounds only barely diminished that. Nicole’s weapons were numbers and money and the secrets behind the numbers. They had protected against CrockerCorp, but how could they protect against fire out of portals in the sky?

            “Do you think this happened because I doubted what _Sburb_ could do?” Andrea said.

            “No,” said Nicole.

            “Why not?”

            “I don’t know,” said Nicole. “Sometimes things just happen, and you just gotta deal with them.” Nicole just had no idea how to do that yet. She was _not_ terrified. For Andrea, she couldn’t be.

            “But there’s always a reason.”

            “Maybe. And maybe thinking too hard about it is just wasting time and making you feel bad.”

            Andrea made a vague grumbling sound, but didn’t argue.

            “So,” said Nicole, indicating Valerie. “How is she?”

            “ _Awake_ ,” Valerie rasped. With a straining twist and a grunt of exertion, Valerie pressed against the strap that held down her torso on the stretcher. She pushed up even harder, voice rising to a hoarse scream. The metal hook that held the strap stretched and twisted, let out a horrific _creaaaak_ , and snapped clean off. And Valerie Egbert, still looking half-dead, panting, her face pale and bandaged and her hair a feral mane about her head, _sat up_.

                                                  

            –

 

            At the top of the stairs, Roger hugged his knees and leaned his head against the closed door. His face was dry, he noticed. How had he gotten here? He’d hung up on Ms. Timbal. Yes, that was right. He’d wanted to fling his phone down to the street, to watch it fall and hear it crack against the pavement, but he’d used his hands and arm to tuck it in his pocket. By moving his feet he’d got back to the stairwell, shambling and shuffling, tears still streaming down his face. The wind had torn through his hoodie and bitten at his skin, so he’d shut the door to lock it out. But then what? He didn’t remember. He was hugging his knees and leaning his head on the closed door. How had he gotten here?

            Roger’s eyes slid around the room, to this corner and that corner, and the handle on the door, and now to his watch. _Watch_. It was 2:15. Twenty minutes after that call.

            _Twenty minutes_. Time was important. It would take thirty, Ms. Timbal had said, to reroute that antenna on top of this building and doom every single person in Seattle. No, Roger wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t even consider it. Or maybe he _would_ consider it. That was far worse.

            Not knowing why, Roger snaked his hand to his pocket and pulled out his phone. He watched his fingers Andrea’s number, 253-412-0001. The number looked odd, glowing there on the screen, like it was _almost_ part of part of something far, far grander. Almost. But not quite.

            He hit _send_. After a moment, Andrea picked up. “I’m a bit busy. Who is-”

            “The conspiracy was worse.”

            “Uh. What? Who is-”

            “You said there would be apocalyptic conspiracies, and there would be family drama, and-”

            “Roger?” said Andrea.

            “As it turns out, _apocalyptic conspiracies are a little fucking worse than family drama_.”

            “I see you’ve spoken with Elaine.”

            “Yeah,” said Roger. “She…uh…”

            “What did she ask you to do?” Andrea said flatly.

            “She wanted me to blow up Seattle.”

            “That doesn’t sound like her.”

            Outside, the wind screamed, still audible even through the heavy door. “Why not?”

            “She probably told you herself.”

            Roger thought back, but he remembered far more of the moments after he hung up on Ms. Timbal that the conversation itself, the moments with the screaming and the crying and the almost throwing his phone off the roof. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

            “Let me hazard a guess,” said Andrea. In the background, Roger heard other voices, two women. “Elaine gave a half-explanation of what was going on that only raised more questions.”

            “How did you-”

            “Then she suggested some horrifically extreme idea that you rejected on sight.”

            “How did you _know_ that?”      

            There was a shout in the background. “I know _her_.” Andrea’s words were rushed. “She probably even lectured you on how she only did what was necessary.”

            “Uh. Yeah.”                                                                        

            Andrea made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “The worst thing about Elaine is that she’s honest. And usually, she’s _right_.”

            “That I should blow up Seattle?”

            “No, I’m not saying that!”

            “But Elaine said-”

            “Elaine _probably_ isn’t saying that.”

            “So what are _you_ saying?” said Roger.

            “I’m saying that Elaine believes what she’s asked you to do is the only way, and that her information is good. _But_ , she might have missed something. So, I need to know-” In the background, somebody shouted something. “I’m busy, dear!” Andrea shouted back. “Critical phone call!”

            “Fine,” said the voice in the background, very quickly, “but once you’re done could you please-”

            “Tell me _then_!” she shouted. “Sorry about that,” she continued, more quietly. “We just got Val back-”

            Roger barely managed to grab the railing and stop himself from tumbling down the stairs in shock. “ _She’s okay?_ ”

            “I told you she was tough. We picked her up from the hospital. Once we got her parked, she woke up and broke her stretcher.”

            Roger gaped. Valerie was athletic, sturdy-looking, but definitely didn’t look strong enough to break out of a stretcher just a few hours after almost dying about five times over. There was _something_ strange going on here. Maybe Andrea’s tales of the Egbert family’s toughness weren’t such an exaggeration. “Can I talk to her?”

            “She’s a bit…” A clattering crash came over the line. “…out of it. Besides, we’re in a hurry. I need you to tell me exactlywhat Elaine asked you to do.”

             “Yeah, just give me a…” Roger closed his eyes and thought back…but there was nothing. “I…I don’t know. Elaine wanted me to do something Seattle. Something bad, but my head’s all fuzzy, I don’t…”

            “Try to think of it in order,” said Andrea. “Tell me aloud what you remember, start to finish.”

            “Uh. Why?”

            “I’m a neurologist. Give me some credit.”    

            “Fuck it.” Roger stood up and leaned against the wall. “I climbed the stairs, the stairs out onto the roof. Elaine was explaining things. There was a big radio tower, she talked about it, told me what it did. Then I…then I hung up and ran inside.”

            “Good,” said Andrea. “Tell me again.”

            Roger opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. _Give her some credit_. “Okay. I was on the phone, climbing the stairs, and I went out on the roof. Uh…it was windy, so I had to shout into the phone. There was a large radio tower. Elaine explained that it made _Sburb_ work in Seattle…then she started talking about time travel?”  
            “Go on.” Roger couldn’t see Andrea’s face, but she was probably rolling her eyes.

            “After that she mentioned another tower. Um…”

            “Where are you?”

            “On top of the stairs,” said Roger.

            “The same stairs?”

            “Yes.”

            “Go back on the roof,” said Andrea. “It’ll help you remember.”

            Roger nodded, stood up straight, and walked outside. The wind had died down, but everything else, the radio tower, the view, was the same. Maybe it was the chill in the air, but he felt his mind sharpen by the moment. “After that…Maple Valley. She mentioned a tower that served Maple Valley. It important, but it broke, and there wasn’t time to fix it. Instead… _oh_.”

            “Go on.”

            Robert felt queasy even thinking about it, but he forced the words out. “Instead, she wanted me to reroute the signal from the Seattle tower down south.”

            For a moment, Andrea was speechless. “That would stop the whole city from playing. Block their escape.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Holy shit.”

            “Yeah.” For a moment, nobody said anything. “I know you had a plan. Was this it?”

            “No. We didn’t know that tower would break,” she said. “We’re all improvising. I just didn’t expect her to go that far.”

            “She wanted to save us using that signal. Kill everyone in Seattle so we could live.”

            “Not exactly, but…”

            “She was sure willing to take advantage of it!”

            Andrea was dead silent.

            “Uh…look, you wanted me to tell you all this so we could find an alternative. Do you see an alternative? Maybe something about the towers, or…I don’t know,” said Roger. He glanced upward. Pigeons had begun to flock to the tower. That tower broadcast a signal that made _Sburb_ work, but… “Elaine told me that the client program functions without the tower’s signal, it just doesn’t do much. When do we actually _need_ that signal?”

            For a long moment, Andrea didn’t say a word. “Huh.”

            “Huh?”

            “I don’t know when we need it,” she said.” But it’s a good thought. Talk to Elaine and look into it.”

            “I don’t really like that idea.”

            “You’ll have to deal with her sooner or later. Besides, I have a confused and _incredibly_ strong sister to take care of.”

            Okay. That was fair.

            “And by the way, congratulations.”

            “Why?”

            “You might get to prove Elaine Timbal wrong.”

 

 

_14:18 Seattle, 17:18 New York, 22:18 Oxford, 3:48 Bangalore_

 


	13. cast off, allowed to live (Frag. 12)

            Grey light filtered through the window and rain like hailstones pelted the ledge outside Melanie Timbal’s room as, cross-legged on her bed with a tasseled pillow she’d tried so hard to hate upon her lap, she watched the cars go by on the street below. The city was a frantic place, but watching from fifteen stories up you wouldn’t know it. From fifteen stories up, the flow of cars and trucks and buses down the streets had an methodical elegance to it, a sense of order and design and constancy. Maybe she should become a traffic planner. The flaming ruins of New York would need some road work. Melanie had never tried to drive a car through a crater, but it couldn’t be easy. She hadn’t even tried to drive a car, but looking at the way Mom did it, that couldn’t be easy either.

            Melanie had shut the door to her room just to keep out the smell. That’s what she’d told Mom, at least, and the bit about the smell wasn’t a lie. Probably to make Melanie feel better about her part in blowing up the world, Dad had brought home four pizzas from Chino’s, and the entire apartment stank of grease and cheese. Usually that wouldn’t bother her, but today the scent made her stomach turn. Not that _he_ noticed. He’d been so pleased with himself she didn’t bother him about it, so she’d just told him she wasn’t hungry and told Mom the smell was making her sick and went straight to her room and shut the door, _bam_.

            The room was a disaster. It had lavender walls, a spotless white carpet, and a wooden desk missing its chair. It had grown so aggressively neat in Melanie’s absence that upon her return she’d had to toss a few games across the desk. That hadn’t been right either, so she’d shuffled them around so she could locate and access them easily, but they still looked unkempt. They weren’t disorganized; their locations were optimized. Beside the desk was a shelf stuffed with books: mostly fiction, _ew_ , but there were schoolbooks, workbooks, history books, even a few games. A violin and something that almost passed for a knitting project sat prominently in the corner, ready to please Mom. In the center of the room sat a chair that matched the desk, and atop it, wearing a simple pink dress, was Mom.

            She looked uncomfortable, which was odd, because she had always looked comfortable in Melanie’s chair before, or in her room, or anywhere that Melanie ought to have herself. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, ankles crossed and prim. She clearly meant Melanie to ask her what she was here for. It was a little challenge, which Melanie thought represented most aspects of Mom’s character. But no, Melanie wasn’t going to do it. She wouldn’t give her the pleasure.

            After a moment, Mom spoke. “You had asked me why I have been taking you to the Lalonde residence.”

            Melanie waited.

            “And…I had promised to explain it to you.” She noticed she’d been slouching, and sat up straight. “I felt I owed you.”

            “That just occurred to you?”       

            “Melanie, I…” She stopped, closed her eyes, then opened them again. “If an excuse is what you want, I have several, but none will satisfy you. None _should_. I ought to have told you earlier, but telling you would only take away what childhood you had left. It never seemed the right time. I could always hold it for another year, for a better time-”

            “Like when meteors start falling.”

            Mom winced. “That was not an excuse.”

            Melanie knew that, but the look on Mom’s face had been so gratifying. “Just talk.”

            “Of course.” Her expression became blank. Her eyes started scanning, as if reading a chart that only she could see. It was her “planning something” look. “You will recall,” said Mom, eyes focusing once more, “that SkaiaNet listed a diverse set of qualifications for applicants.”

            “Game design, programming, neuroscience. How could a young mad scientist resist?”

            “I was thirty-two at the time. ‘Young’ is hardly an accurate-” She saw Melanie’s expression and glowered. “There is one thing I did not tell you. SkaiaNet would only accept applicants with a child, a girl, of exactly four months.”

            The same age as Rose Lalonde. Melanie thought had an idea where this was going. She didn’t like it. “They hired you over more qualified people because you had a kid?”

            “More qualified?” said Elaine. A sharp grin flashed across her face. “I was the best.”

            Oh. Of course Mom was the best. Mom was _always_ the best. She reminded Melanie of that from time to time, with very little time in between those times.

            “When they offered me the job,” continued Mom “they also gave me a second, secret contract, concerning you. It required that I bring you in to visit Roxanne Lalonde each month and a half for neurosynchronization tests, and to ensure you played with Ms. Lalonde’s daughter Rose.”

             “Play with Rose.” She might have considered that once upon a never.

            “Roxanne and I used to look forward to a time when you and Rose would be friends. I suppose your mutual disdain was the inevitable result.” Elaine paused. “Nevertheless, we soon learned that your mere proximity with the girl was sufficient for our purposes.”

            “Which were?” asked Melanie, even though she had a sick feeling that she already knew.

            “Testing. The greater part of _Sburb_ ’s code, the Box, was beyond our reach, the client and interface were conventional software. To ensure they would work properly, SkaiaNet needed to test them under conditions that would match those of the final game.”

            Conditions which required Melanie. Not only that she be present, but that she be trained for…something. Somehow, she’d known that. For as long as she could remember, she’d had more work than other children. She’d gone to York Preparatory School, moved up in grade twice, and _still_ been best in class. She’d had a tutor before school and a tutor after school, violin lessons, extra training from SkaiaNet. It was hard, but it was her _thing_ , hers because it prepared her for something special, something only she could handle. Melanie hung her legs over the side of the bed, stopped fingering the tassels on her pillow, and sat up straight.

            “Most significantly, the psychological profile of the test subject needed to match that of the end player.” Her words were hesitant, like footsteps across thin ice. “To that end, SkaiaNet wished to ensure that your development synchronized with that of Rose Lalonde.”

            Melanie just stared.

            “By ensuring that the two of you developed at the same rate, SkaiaNet was able to reliably calibrate the…” She trailed off. “Dear, your mouth is open.”

            Melanie ignored her. “ _Synchronized_?”

            “Yes. SkaiaNet wished to-”

            “You keep saying _SkaiaNet_ did this, _SkaiaNet_ did that, but it was _you_ the whole-”

            “Do you want an explanation or not?”

            “I…Mom, I…” She stood up. Her pillow fell to the floor. “You experimented on me,” she said. “You _experimented_ on me _._ ”

            Mom stared at her, then at the floor, then at her again. Melanie didn’t know how long it took, but her little “ _Yes_ ,” just a whisper, seemed louder than a meteor strike.

            “You made me like _her_ ,” Melanie said, stepping forward, voice rising. “You tried to make me _be_ her!”

            “We had to, it was for the test, there was no other way-”

            “Did you even look for one?”

            “I…” She raised her eyes. “I…” Her mouth hung open, frozen, eyes shining through her dark wavy hair, the same hair as Melanie. She lowered her head and sobbed.

            Melanie was close enough to reach Mom. She could do it, she could reach out and put a hand on her head, maybe her shoulder. That was what you were supposed to do when your mom was crying. Was that what Dad did? Had she ever cried in front of him? He was right over in the next room, she could go ask him…but no, that wasn’t right either. Melanie didn’t know _why_ it wasn’t right, and not knowing bothered her. She should know this kind of thing, how to deal with people, with her family, not how to play violin and do calculus and be like Rose Lalonde, she was thirteen for god’s sake and she couldn’t even pat her mom on the head or give her a hug. All she could do was stand there like a stupid little girl with her stupid purple pillow and watch Mom sobbing her eyes out, and laugh, or cry, or both.

            Laughing won out, but gave way to crying, then laughing again. Mom began to laugh with her, choking chuckles tripping over sniffles and giggles chasing sobs. It built and built until Melanie stumbled back onto her bed and Mom pitched right off the chair. Face down on the floor with the chair across her back, she shook, hooting and weeping in the same breath. “It’s…it’s funny. You’re nothing…ha ha…like Rose. You’re like me!”

            “I don’t know,” gasped Melanie. “I mean…heehee… _I_ didn’t experiment on _you_.”

            She shrugged. “But this means our tests…heh…weren’t valid. The universe might collapse if we’re wrong. We’ll have to redo them!” She made a show of checking her watch. “They took thirteen years the first time, but we can get them done in the two hours before the world ends, right?”

            “Sure. I’ll just…heehee…put on the electrode helmet and-”

            “Oh, but tell me. If you had the chance, would you-”

            “Do what?” said Melanie.

            “Experiment. On me.”

            Melanie pretended to think about it. “Oh, _yes_.”

            Mom laughed, and her voice sounded like relief.

            “You know that was a joke.”

            Mom nodded, twisting her body to roll the chair off her back. “I do, but thank you.” She sat up cross-legged on the floor and righted the chair. “Shall I continue?”

            Melanie nodded. She would have liked to see Mom still lying down under that chair, dignity in shambles, for just a minute more, but they needed to get moving.

            “Synchronizing your development with Rose’s was difficult. Beyond the practical demands of the task, we also had to help you keep up with Rose’s natural abilities.”

            “‘Natural abilities’?” Melanie tried to keep any judgment out of her voice, and sort of succeeded. “So what, Rose was just better?”

            Mom opened her mouth and froze, a word on stuck her lips. _Yes_.

            And there it was. No matter how hard she tried, how hard she excelled, she would, forever and always, be _almost_ good enough. At least she’d made a decent test subject. She _hoped_ so, because Mom had said the world would end if she weren’t. Sure, it was ending anyway, but a nice, calm barrage of very accurate meteors would be so much more pleasant than the retroactive unraveling of everything that ever was.

            Mom looked at Melanie, knowing. “Dear, you need to understand that for an ordinary child to even approach the abilities of the Four is-”

            “The Four?” She blinked. “ _Ordinary?_ ”

            “Despite SkaiaNet’s global reach and all the funds and effort it put into the production of _Sburb_ , only four children your age, scattered across the world, were meant to play it, Rose Lalonde is one. Each of the Four displays remarkable abilities, from intelligence to emotional fortitude to resourcefulness to sheer physical ability. Also, they were not born on Earth. Each was found within a newly-formed impact crater.”

            “How did you find them?” Strangely, Melanie did not feel at all incredulous at the idea that a baby could fall from the sky on the back of a meteor and survive. Maybe her capacity for disbelief had a finite limit. Maybe she should do a project on it.

            “That much was easy. SkaiaNet possesses a piece of equipment which predicts meteors generated by the game. Once we had that data, we were able to place them in the care of the Guardians.” She anticipated Melanie’s question and continued. “The Guardians are adultswho, like the children, arrived as babies via meteor, but at various times across the 20th century. Mr. English, SkaiaNet’s late founder, was one, as is Ms. Lalonde. Like the children, they display a range of remarkable abilities, developed to superhuman levels. We assume that under the right circumstances the Four could develop similar abilities.”

            “When I joined SkaiaNet,” she said, addressing Melanie directly, even looking at her, “I felt much as you do now. My own skills did not even compare to those of Ms. Lalonde. Expecting _you_ to keep pace with Rose…” She shook her head, rising to her feet. “The standard to which we held you was impossible. We knew it at the start, but over thirteen years…”

            “You forget that that it was me you were putting through this?”  
            She took a slow breath. “Yes. Well…no. But close enough. Few adults could handle what we expected of you, and _no_ child should have to.”

            “Is that a compliment?”

            Mom rose from her place on the floor and knelt in front of Melanie. Her face broke into a rare, warm smile, and she took Melanie’s hand. “Yes, dear. You were magnificent. You _are_ magnificent.”

            Melanie opened her mouth, closed it, felt tears rolling down her cheeks. She moved forward to hug Mom, then stopped short, still holding her hand.

            “Here.” Mom leaned down and wrapped her arms around Melanie. It was awkward, all bumpy elbows and chins in shoulders. Both of them were terrible at it, and Melanie couldn’t remember a better feeling.

            “Uh…” Mom’s shoulder muffled her voice, so she disengaged just enough to speak. “So if only those four kids were supposed to play this game, how do _we_ expect to survive?”

            Mom patted Melanie on the back, _pat, pat, pat_. She gave a hollow laugh and held her tighter.

 

            _14:30 Seattle, 17:30 New York, 22:30 Oxford, 4:00 Bangalore_


	14. but starved, inconsequential (Frag. 13)

            In a way, selling someone pizza was a sacred trust. People dropped little snippets of their lives like trails of breadcrumbs hidden behind chatter on the weather and the Yankees, and all you needed to piece their lives together was an open ear and a smile. They’d come back, and talk, and come back again, until at some point months down the road, they’d forget the weather and the Yankees and come to talk about their hopes and their families, and walk away with a pizza as well. He wouldn’t invite them home for dinner, but Art Smiley liked to think he knew some of his patrons pretty well. That’s why it surprised him when it was only now, years after meeting him, standing in the elevator, that he realized Tony Timbal was a complete asshole.

            The elevator was fancy but tasteful, with real wooden siding and an ironwork dial over the door to count the floors. It stopped every few floors to let people off, and as the dial glided up, the number of passengers dwindled. Twelve at floor five. Eight at floor eight. Six at floor eleven. By floor fifteen, it was only him and an elderly lady with a walker.

            “You have a good day now, young man,” she said with a ghost of a Yiddish accent.

            “Thanks, ma’am. You too.” With a smile, Art left into the hallway outside and headed for apartment 1504. He knew every bump and scrape on the dark wooden door, but without a hot pizza in his hands, the place seemed almost alien. Art reached out his hand. He gave a knock.

            “Coming! Just a-” There was a distant crash and a grunt. “Just a minute!” called Tony. After a short wait, he opened the door. He had tan skin, a tidy black beard, and thin oval glasses, and wore a white sport jacket over a green sweater vest. “Art!”

            “Tony.”

            Tony glanced down at Art’s hands, as if to confirm there wasn’t any pizza. “So…you’re taking that break?” He had a slight accent that Tony still couldn’t place. Mexican, maybe?

            “Yeah. It’s called _lunch_.”

            Tony leaned on the doorframe. “Uh…I’m sorry, what are you-”

            “Let me tell you about my day,” said Art.

            “But why are-”

            “One of my regulars comes in, chats a bit, gets four pies. Pretty standard,” Art continued. “Then, right over the counter where every single god damn customer and employee can see, he hands me _two grand_.”

            “Uh…why don’t you come in and sit down? I can get you-”

            “Some pizza? Believe it or not, I get enough of that.”

            “I was thinking coffee.”

            “It’s 5:30.”

            “So?”

            “…fine. Lunch is an hour, anyway.” He followed Tony through the foyer into an impeccably-decorated living room, with hardwood floors and an impressive clay vase on the basketweave coffee table. Windows overlooking the street far below stretched from wall to wall, and over the leather couch opposite them hung an impressionistic painting of the _Sagrada Familia_ , all in colors that blazed like a hot sunset.

            “Go on, sit down,” said Tony.

            “Tony, I-”

            “I’ll go prepare the coffee.”  
            “I’m not here for coffee!”

            “…oh.” He glanced down, then back up toward Art, hands tight against to his sides. “You’re wondering why I gave you-”

            “Yeah. Why don’t you tell me?”

            “Well. Uh.” Tony wrung his hands. “Look, it’s one of Elaine’s things.”

            “What kind of _things_?”

            He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t think I’d really be the best person to-”

            “You handed me a bundle of cash. People don’t do that without knowing why.”

            Tony turned away from him “Something bad is gonna happen.”

            “ _Something bad?_ ”

            “I like you, Art, and I just wanted you to get the chance to, y’know, relax.” As he spoke, Tony paced back and forth. “Have some fun, take Mara out for-”

            “Mara and I got divorced.”

            Tony gaped. “I’m sorry! I wish you’d told me, or I’d-”

            “I _did_ tell you, when it _happened_ , _three months ago_.” Tony’s mistake wasn’t quite as idiotic as it sounded. They weren’t together anymore, but he and Mara were still friendly. Heck, they’d taken the kids to the park just the other weekend, together. Maybe Tony had seen them together and assumed…no. Tony wouldn’t remember something like that.

            Tony shrunk, and kept shrinking until he had shrunk all the way back onto the couch. His head bumping the painting on the wall.

            Art stepped around the room and leaned against the windowsill, tossing Tony’s wallet on the coffee table between them.“Okay. Something bad’s going to happen. _What_? And how do you know?”

            “Uh. So there’s this game Elaine’s company’s been working on. You’re supposed to play it with people all around the world. You get four groups together, and-”

            “That doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” said Art.

            Tony hunched over in his seat. “Then it blows up the world.”

            Art crossed his arms. “…is that so.”

            “Uh. Yeah.”

            “So, why don’t you explain to me how the world ends?”

            “You’re sure you want me to-”

            “Yeah, I do.”

            Tony frowned. “Well. Okay. So you’ve got four groups, all over the world. You link them up and start playing. Each group helps another group, and they all enter the game. Which is in real life, by the way.”

            “What-”

            “But they all have to hurry, because if they’re too slow, meteors come, and-”

            “Perhaps I should explain this.”

            Two heads turned as a short woman with olive skin strode in from the hall. Her feet were bare, her elegant pink dress rumpled, the perfect waves of her dark hair thrown in a frizz. Art gaped. Elaine Timbal had always seemed a walking statue, almost seemed human.

            Tony stared up at her. “Are you sure you want to bring him in on-”

            “It seems you already did.” She paused, then forced herself to continue. “That’s alright, I guess.”

           

            –

            “No, unfortunately,” continued Alok. “The meteors will come whether or not we play the game. Playing…um…” He yawned. “Playing lets us escape.”

            “I feared as much, but thank you. Any other questions?” The low buzz of fluorescent lights filled the tiny cube of an office. Nalani Misra’s three grandchildren had managed to pack themselves in around her, and she could hardly turn around without hitting one of them with her knitting bag. Alok sat at the computer, curly long hair, thin frame, and a fresh cup of coffee before him. Chiran, wearing a mediocre suit, leaned against the corner, barely managing to stay awake. And then there was Shafti in her chair taking up most of the room, fat, crippled Shafti who had just draped her skirt over her legs rather than bothering to put it on, as if Nalani wouldn’t notice. The girl was still disheveled from that little moment when she’d burst into tears and come wheeling down the hall, wailing about something or other. The fluoresecent buzz seemed to grow louder, filling up the silence in the room. The grandchildren were nervous, and rightly so. Nalani was too, but _somebody_ had to crack the whip. “I have a question. The game is played in groups of four, yes?”

            “No,” said Alok, “it’s four groups of-”

            “That’s what I meant. Thank you.” She tapped her cane on the floor, _tap tap tap_. “Now. Who exactly are the other three groups?”

            Shafti sat useless in her chair, of course.

            Chiran dozed, head against the wall.

            Alok turned in his chair to her. “They’re…uh.”

            The room was silent for a moment. “Do we actually _have_ any other people to play with?”

            “Not…precisely.”                     

            “Then what precisely _do_ we have?”                                  

            Alok spun his chair around to face the computer screen. “We have, uh…”

            “W-we have…we have a matchmaking service,” stammered Shafti.

            Nalani looked to Shafti, who shrank. “What’s that?” she asked Alok?

             “It’s…part of the program,” he said, his voice slurring. He blinked, took a swill of his coffee, then blinked again. “I’m sorry. The matchmaker helps players find other players, and it gets to…excuse me. They get to-”

            “It connects players with each other,” Shafti said, barely loud enough to hear.

            “Shafti,” said Nalani. “Alok knows about this. You don’t.”

            Shafti stared at the flimsy little table attached to her chair. “I…I…didn’t mean to-”

            “What didn’t you mean?” said Nalani, tapping her cane on the ground.

            Leaning close to the screen, Alok mumbled something.

            “Speak up.”

            “I just think you should…” He trailed off, rubbing his eyes.

            “What should we do?”

            Still leaning against the wall, Chiran let out a soft snore.

            “No. _You_. Not _we_ ,” said Alok. “Listen. Chiran and I have been awake since this time yesterday morning. I’ve been monitoring shipments, and he’s been dealing with Americans. All week. We’ve slept, uh…not much. I don’t think I can…”

            “Speak clearly, Alok.”

            He closed his eyes, then opened them. In a slow, ponderous motion, he turned his chair around and sat up straight, facing her. “Grandmother.” His words were slow and careful, but at least they were clear. “I don’t know how well Shafti understands this game, but…” He yawned. “I think she could surprise either of us.”

            Alok had a point. He was falling asleep, and Chiran was already there. It would hardly be fair to expect much of either of them. She cast a glance down at Shafti. The girl’s face was stuck in a puckered frown, and that skirt she’d draped over her legs was slipping. “Surprise me, then.”

            “I…I think I understand the-”

            “The what?”

            “The game. The matchmaking service. I’ve been doing a lot of research on SkaiaNet, and-”

            “Three years in your room on that computer.” Nalani paced back and forth in the few square feet of space in the room, and Shafti wheeled backward to make room. “At least you learned something.”

            “Thank you,” she mumbled, bumping into the wall behind her.

            “Well?” said Nalani. “What did you learn?”

            “Uh, right.” Shafti tapped her fingers on her little table. “The matchmaker. It’s-”

            “Stop that. It’s annoying.”

            “You told me to talk. Can I please-”

            “ _Talk_. Don’t _tap_.”

            Shafti’s jaw tensed. Very slowly, she moved her hands from the little table to her lap. Nalani could tell just by looking that she was still tapping her fingers, but at least it was quiet. “Alok, you should probably-”

            “I should probably-”  
            “Move,” they both said. Shafti looked at Alok, then giggled like a little girl. Alok let out a chuckle and moved aside. Shafti grabbed her chair’s wheels and inched away from the wall, across the carpet, halting in the room’s center. She glanced down at the floor. The tip of Nalani’s cane happened to fall right in front of her chair. It seemed Shafti wouldn’t just push the cane aside, so Nalani pulled it away herself. It caught on the fringe of Shafti’s skirt, tugging it a few inches off her lap before the girl’s hand snapped down to hold it in place.

            “You’ll put that on properly once we have a moment.”

            Shafti’s hands scrambled with the skirt, setting it back in place to cover her legs, smoothing it, patting it. “Y-yes, Grandmother.” She continued to the computer, tucked away the little table, and situated herself before the desk. She clicked on a green house-shaped emblem, broken up into chunks. “I haven’t actually dealt with the _Sburb_ matchmaker. Or _Sburb_ , really, at all, but I’ve done a lot of research, and…”

            Fiddling with the needles in her knitting bag, Nalani glanced around the room. Chiran was still sleeping on his feet in the corner, and Alok had sat down on the floor and nodded off as well. Shafti was still talking. It was so hard getting her to talk when you actually wanted to, and when she _did_ speak, she would always take so long to get to the point.

            “…and…and I…well, I know a lot of matchmaking programs, from other-”

            A frenetic xylophone rhythm came from the computer. Onscreen, a green spirograph logo appeared, the emblem of SkaiaNet, spinning and shifting in time with the beat.  Beneath it was a progress bar.

            “My point is, I’ve done a lot of research on _Sburb_ , and everything I’ve read says its matchmaker is no different from any other.”

            The music swelled, bells and violins joining the xylophone. Abe the progress bar, small white letters flickered. Nalani crept closer. She eyed the words, squinting. She knew those letters. They were English letters, which made sense. “So you can use it?”

            “I think so.” She straightened her back. “But I can’t do much until it-”

            “What do those words say?”

            “Hold on, they’re moving too fast to read.” She tapped a key, and the image on the screen froze. “I…I have no idea what this-”

            “And can you turn that music off?”

            Shafti pressed a key, and the music stopped. “I can’t translate this.”

            “Try.”

            “I’ve just never seen anything quite like…” She shook her head. “ _Concrete…_ no. _Conceptualizing…push…terminals_? That makes no sense.”

            “Alternately, you’re wrong,” said Nalani. “Try again.”

            “Hold on.” Shafti returned to the game screen and froze it again. “ _Consolidating fuse calipers_?”

            Nalani leaned forward on her cane. “Again.”

            “ _Evaluating mortar_.”

            “Again!”

            “ _Realigning car...Cartesian mandrels_. Grandmother, these are nonsense.”

            Nalani took a deep breath. Dealing with Shafti took patience. “Try. Again.”

            “Fine.” She froze it once more. “ _Licensing chocks_.”

            This was going nowhere. She whirled around and rapped Alok on the shoulder with her cane. “This text on the screen. Tell me what it says.”

            Alok dragged himself up from the floor and shuffled over, leaning forward to read. “ _Licensing chocks_? What does that mean?”

            “ _Nothing!_ ” shouted Nalani and Shafti at the same time.

            In the corner, Chiran sputtered awake. “Wh-what?”

            “Go back to sleep, Chiran,” said Shafti, and Nalani found she agreed.

            Chiran sat down and closed his eyes, and Alok soon followed. When Shafti returned to the game, the progress bar was gone, replaced by a single word in bold English letters. “Title screen,” said Shafti. She pressed a button and it vanished. “I should be able to find the matchmaker in just a…”

            The screen went black.

            Nalani tapped her cane on the floor. “Is this supposed to-”

            “Can you stop _tapping_?”

            “Don’t be rude, Shafti.”

            Shafti’s eyes narrowed.

            “Is there something you want to say?”

            Shafti held her gaze a moment, then hunched over and turned back to the screen. It flickered. Across the top and left sides stretched a tan bar holding a series of icons reminiscent of the green house. The bar was similar to Nalani’s set of weaving shuttles. Clearly, each of these icons represented a tool of some sort; _what_ was the question. A moment later, a green oblong box, rounded at the corners, appeared in the center.

            “ _No co-player found_ ,” translated Shafti. “ _Searching._ ” A smile crept across her face, and she looked up at Nalani. “It’s working! All we have to do now is wait.”

            “Good,” said Nalani, smiling too. “That gives you time to put on your skirt correctly, doesn’t it?”

            Shafti shriveled, tugging at the edges of the skirt to pull it over her legs. It didn’t help.

                                                                                        

            _14:48 Seattle, 17:48 New York, 22:48 Oxford, 4:18 Bangalore_


	15. bystanders huddling for shelter (Frag. 14)

            “I don’t see how you can expect _us_ to carry one of those things,” said Mr. Gaulois, “let alone _children_.” Frantz Gaulois was a tall, balding Frenchman about twenty years Maria’s junior, with thick glasses, even thicker eyebrows, and a pointy red nose. The red of his nose had spread all across his face and was, at the moment, creeping its way up his bald spot, making him look like a pointy, underripe tomato.

            “It’s brutish, reckless, unreliable...” said Assia Gaulois, a sharp-featured Moroccan woman with dark, dark skin and curly hair, in a light silk scarf and a tan jacket with a zipper. With each word she inched up from her chair, palms flat on the sturdy wooden surface of the table, then realized she was almost standing up. She sat down with a jerk, as if tugged. “And I don’t need to remind you, highly illegal!”

            Behind them, almost hidden in the green wainscoted doorframe, was the slight outline of their son, tall a boy of thirteen or fourteen, doubtless eavesdropping. Martin was supposed to keep an eye on the boy, but he was busy with another pupil; from the other room came the faint sound of his voice, mostly lost in the plaster of the old walls. Their presence, as well as the Gaulois’, was remarkable: a product of Martin’s need to protect his pupils in the face of all logic, which had by luck or will or some other force unknown managed to locate a single circumstance, a narrow hole in the vast net of potential realities where the mere idea of these children’s survival rested in the realm of the plausible. The boy made as if to move back into the hallway, out of sight, but Maria gave him a tiny nod. He caught the look and leaned forward to listen.

            Maria took a slow breath. Though she didn’t like it, she had to admit that the Gaulois’ position made a great deal of sense. The decision of whether or not to arm their son was, after all, an emotional topic, and Maria was, after all, cleaning a dismantled assault rifle on the table before them. At her right side laid the two rifles she had already finished cleaning, and at her left laid the seventeen to go, still in their cases.

            Maria had always held a certain fondness for guns. Her father had been a hobby hunter, and had dreamed of donning a pith helmet and going on safari like the heroes of so many novels from the days of the old British Empire. The imagined Empire, of course, with the nastier bits taken out. To make up for that impossibility, he would take Maria out into the countryside, where they would camp out and bond over the petty killing of all manner of small fowl. Though she had fond memories of those trips, she remembered the feeling of the shotgun in her hands most of all. Guns had a solidness to them, a certain firmness of being, a promise that Maria heard in whispers as she peered down the sights. _Pull the trigger. The bird dies._ A statement of purpose, of fact, of consequence, and for that moment, a law of the universe as fundamental as gravity. _The bird flies. I pull the trigger. The bird dies._ It wasn’t a matter of wanting to. It was the knowledge before the fact that she would do it: the feeling of her father’s eyes upon her back as she took aim, a slow breath, another, counting down to the moment she knew it would happen, the second she knew she would pull the trigger. That moment of foreknowledge dictated the reality that must be. She always pulled the trigger, because she would have always pulled the trigger.

            “Mrs. Gaulois,” she said, very patiently, still cleaning the rifle’s barrel, “I should have informed you before, but common law does not apply within the Medium.”

            “That’s not my point, and you know it,” Mrs. Gaulois said.

            From the other room came the sound of a laugh, a smooth, sure tenor: Martin’s. Evidently, the other guests were a great deal more entertaining. Of course, Martin had always been a better host than Maria, so who could say how he would have handled the Gaulois family? Better than her, certainly; beyond that she couldn’t know.

            Mr. Gaulois flushed deeper. “Did you know guns are responsible for more deaths-”

            “I know precisely how dangerous they are. That’s why I kept them in my basement in a safe within an unmarked crate.” Maria rubbed down the weapon’s magazine with a cloth. She held it up to the light. “I’m afraid you both fail to understand that the dangers this game presents go beyond the immediately obvious. Should we live long enough to see that point, it seems prudent that we prepare ourselves for-”

            “What dangers?” said Mr. Gaulois.

            “She also said something about the dangers of tampering with timelines.” Mrs. Gaulois continued to her husband, as if Maria hadn’t spoken.

            “That’s right, she did,” said Mr. Gaulois. He turned to Maria. “That’s right, right?”

            “That’s precisely what I was trying to-”

            “Guns won’t help against that, or the meteors,” said Mr. Gaulois. His voice was firm, but his body wavered as if his chair were crumbling beneath him.

            Maria managed, with some effort, to not grind her teeth. “They won’t, but-”

            “ _Then why are we using them?_ ” shouted Mrs. Gaulois, bursting from her chair, which fell to the floor behind her with a loud bang.

            “As I said, this game presents dangers beyond what I’ve expressed-”

            Mr. Gaulois planted his hands on the table and shot up as well. His chair clattered to the floor, striking the other fallen chair on the way down. “But you won’t tell us-”

            “ _Stop!_ ” snapped Maria, barely stopping herself from rising from her own chair. “I realize I tend toward longwindedness, and I’d appreciate if you withhold your reservations until you’ve heard what I mean to say.” She collected her thoughts. “Stop interrupting me, pick up your chairs, and sit down. Both of you.”

            Mr. Gaulois’ face paled. As one, he and his wife bent to pick up their chairs. As Mrs. Gaulois rose and stood, her gaze fell on the kitchen door. She paused, chair still in hand. “Jean?”

            The boy inched back in to the hallway. “Uh. Hi.”

            Mrs. Gaulois paused, opened her mouth, then shook her head. She set the chair down. “How long have you been hiding there?”

            “Uh. I was-” His voice cracked. He blushed. “I was going to the bathroom, and-”

            “Just come out, Jean,” said Mr. Gaulois.

            “I…I wasn’t listening-”

            “I would have if I were you,” said Mr. Gaulois. “What did you think?”

            Jean glanced to his parents, to Maria, and back to his parents, then slumped and shuffled into the kitchen. “I heard you talking about all those guns. It’s a bit obvious.” He inched closer to the table, stopping just close enough to be seen and heard and just too far to be included. “I mean, games like this always have monsters. Right?”

            His parents blinked at him, then glanced to Maria, heads tilted.

            “Yes,” said Maria.

            The boy’s parents waited for her to finish.

            “No, that’s all. He’s correct. We’ll need to fight. The guns will help.”

            The parents said nothing. Mr. Gaulois stopped himself from nodding.

            Jean took a half step forward, then another.

            “You don’t have any objections?”                                                   

            Mr. Gaulois opened his mouth. He paused. “I’m just… Couldn’t you have told us that?”

            “I was trying, but…” Maria blinked. “You’re right. I spoke around the issue. I let it grow out of hand, I got caught in circumlocution, I…it was a simple matter. I should have been brief.”

            “You should have,” said Mrs. Gaulois, lips thin. “But I should point out, you’re still planning to hand children assault rifles.”

            Maria glanced down at the table. She was still holding the clean barrel in her hands, its matte surface gleaming dully. “I believe the guns will help.”

            “But what if they hurt themselves?” said Mr. Gaulois. “What if they hit one of us?”

            “It’s possible.”

            Mr. Gaulois’ red face paled.

            Maria placed the barrel on the table. “You have to understand that this game _will_ endanger us, no matter what we do. It’s brutal even to those meant to play, and we are by no means its chosen players. We must expect it will be cruel to us, and we must be prepared to take risks without hesitation.”

            Jean tried to suppress a smile. He failed. Defying hesitation was Martin’s first lesson to his students. Maria had copied it wholecloth, and Jean knew it.

            “Define ‘cruel’,” said Mrs. Gaulois.  
            “Vicious. Lethal. Murderous.” Maria snapped the handguard back onto the barrel. “Our chance of survival lies in a particular series of loopholes that allow us to enter the game, a feat which under normal circumstances would be impossible. However…” Maria’s hands kept moving, snapping bits of the gun together, top cover and grip and stock. “The game also has a sort of intelligence, a slow sense of inescapable purpose, of _design_ , woven into the events we’ll see about us. An old colleague of mine used to claim it had a sense of humor, a nasty and spiteful one, like the Greek gods.”

            Mr. Gaulois looked sick. “And what do you do when a god wants to kill you?”

            Maria slapped the magazine into the finished gun with a _clack_. “Try not to die.”

            The Gaulois parents glanced at each other, then at Jean.

            “Oh come off it, it’s not even loaded.” Maria popped out the magazine to show them. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

            Jean raised a finger. “You just cocked a gun for _dramatic effect_.”

            “I put in the magazine. That’s-”

            “Not really different at all.” Jean stepped forward into the light. He wore a Star Wars t-shirt, with a robed man holding a sword that glowed blue.

            Maria shrugged, popping the magazine back in. The unique sense of _consequence_ that guns seemed to radiate was always a curiosity. No individual part of the gun held such a feeling; only the whole would do, even if it held not a single bullet. She put the gun down. “Look, do you want to use it or not? It’s your decision.”

            Mr. Gaulois stared at it, taking a slow breath, in, then out. His jaw was tight.

            Mrs. Gaulois glanced to the gun, then to her husband, then to Maria, then back to her husband. “Dear, you’re the one who…”

            Mr. Gaulois gave a shallow nod. “Yes.”

            “I think you should decide. If you don’t want to, I-”

            “I’ll allow it.” He swallowed and licked his lips. When he spoke, his words seemed cracked about the edges. “If it will protect Jean.” He glanced to Maria, expectant.

            The room fell silent. Even the low murmur of conversation from down the hall had fallen dead, and in its absence Maria heard breaths: hers, Jean’s, and Mrs. Gaulois’, Mr. Gaulois. No, not Mrs. and Mr. Gaulois. Assia and Frantz, Frantz, whose slow breaths shook and wavered. Maria moved her gaze to Frantz and forced herself to nod, as slow as his breath.

            Frantz’s face twisted into…something. It wasn’t a smile, it wasn’t grief or fear – what _was_ it? “I guess…I…Jean, if you want, you can…” He fell silent.

            “Take a gun?”

            Frantz nodded. His face was still stuck, dead white.

            “Are you sure?”

            Frantz looked down at the table, lips moving, but unable to speak. Assia took his hand and squeezed.

            Maria glanced at each of them in turn. It wouldn’t have been proper for her to speak.

            “Because I’m not sure I really want to.”

            Frantz didn’t gape; his mouth opened, just a crack. It wasn’t a smile, but it was something.

            “I s’pose swords just seem fine to me,” Jean continued. He didn’t look at his father. It was as if an agreement had passed between them long ago, never spoken but no less real for it. “Most games will kind of equalize them anyway.”

            “Equalize them?” said Assia.

            “Balance them out, so you can use any of them,” Jean continued.

            “Any of what?” said Assia.

            “The weapons. It’s not fun if one is better than the rest.”

            Frantz glanced across the table at his son. Though some color had returned to his skin, he looked older, frailer, than he had just minutes before. “Where did fun come into it?”

            “Well, it’s…” Jean looked over the gun on the table, at the stack on the floor beside it. “It’s a _game_.” He didn’t sound at all convinced. “It ought to be-”

            _Dong_. A single, low ring filled the room. The doorbell. It had a quiet sense of finality, more whisper than fanfare, that Martin made no secret of hating. It was mostly in jest. Maria had picked out the bell long before their wedding, and he’d stayed at it. Even so, looking across that silent table, all eyes on the gun in its center, Maria had to side with Martin. Right now, the sound of the bell was hideous.

            _Dong_. _Dong dong dong_ , and then, _thump_.

            Maria rose from her chair. “Fine. I suppose I have to-”

            _Dongdongdongdongdongdongdong_ …

            Maria lead the Gaulois family to the front door, where the MacNair twins, a boy and a girl, both with freckled olive skin, waited. Martin followed, grumbling that he was on his way, that it would be just a short minute. He undid the locks and opened the door.

            A small girl stumbled inward and fell to the floor. She was slight, with dark, curly hair, and was breathing hard, her back going in and out, in and out. Even face down on the ground, Maria could see her face was full of blotches, purple and brown and yellow, and though she was silent, tears streamed down her cheeks. She must have been eight or nine.

            “Maggie?” whispered Martin.

            Still on the ground, she wrapped her arms around his legs. “Close the door, Mr. Nunsworth,” she whispered. A choked sob snuck out between her breaths. “Lock it. _They’re coming_.”

 

            _14:57 Seattle, 17:57 New York, 22:57 Oxford, 4:27 Bangalore_


	16. against the green eye (Frag. 15)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks alchemyrainstorms and clickingshut for beta-ing!

            Valerie...breathed.

            The air burned her throat raw. Her ribcage _hurt_. Thirteen fractures, Andrea had said. Valerie winced. Forced more air into her lungs. As she breathed in, they lit up. Points of agony. One by one they flared. When she counted thirteen, she froze. Held her breath. Two seconds. She let it out, and the points faded one by one, letting her process other senses. Sounds. There were sounds. The pain had hidden them, but she could hear them now. Birds outside, the low murmur of a woman on the phone in the next room. There was a smell too. Valerie chanced a whiff. Chocolate.

            She opened her eyes. The white ceiling stared her in the face. She could barely see. Glasses missing. Metal racks to her left, tilted wrong. Baking pans on the floor. Flour too. The surface beneath her was smooth. Cool. A kitchen counter. Steel. Yes. That’s where she was. Cascade Cupcakes. Nicole’s bakery. Back here, once again.

            Oh no.

            She couldn’t read the clock on the wall. Too blurry. On the floor beside her was a stretcher, straps ripped off. Bars twisted. Snapped.

            She remembered.

            _She woke to red all around. The room, these pans and ovens. Their edges were sharp. Bleeding. Smells, sweet smells: red. Red too the feel of the straps that held her down. And blood. Blood inside her, beating against the straps. Lump-bump. Red sound. Valerie was not red._

_Yet._

“So.” _A voice. Andrea’s voice_. _Not red._ “How is she?”

“Awake.” _Nicole’s voice._ Nicole’s.

_RED._

            The Strength. It had come back. That explained the wreck she’d made of the kitchen. It shouldn’t surprise her. She’d almost died two or three times over, to hear Andrea tell it. And after the _meteor_ , on exactly the day they’d all been waiting for all these years, _here_ , Nicole’s bakery, where she’d…anyway, _something_ was bound to trigger it. At least the walls were still intact.

            No. She wouldn’t have settled down that soon. Not by herself. Andrea had _settled_ her down. And…Nicole. Nicole must have helped too. Nicole was good at that. Too good.

            The kitchen smelled of chocolate, and one other scent. Lemon? Yes, lemon. The scent of cupcakes. Nicole’s. Even after everything, Nicole’s cupcakes still smelled delicious. Valerie was _hungry._ Those cupcakes weren’t in sight, but they were close. She put her hands on the counter and hoisted herself-

            _Ow._

Right. Two dislocated shoulders. She wouldn’t be getting up like that. Instead she lay flat on her back, palms to the counter. She sucked in a breath, and her ribs screamed. _Right_. No time to set them, rushing out of the hospital like that. They’d fix themselves in a few hours, but for now…shallow breaths. She tried again. Inhale. Exhale, slowly. Right arm up, point toward the ceiling. Her shoulder exploded in pain, as expected. She noted it, and rotating the arm down and back until it touched the counter behind her head. _Pop_. Success. It didn’t even hurt that much by today’s standards.

            The next shoulder was worse. She had to press it against the counter and use the weight of her body to force it back into place. She screamed a bit. After a moment to breathe, she sat up and looked to the floor. Yeah. This was going to suck. She slipped off the counter.

            Pain shot up her back and filled her head. A lot less pain than she expected. How long had she been out? She couldn’t read the clock without her glasses. It must have been awhile, for her to have healed this much. Five hours at least.

            Her stomach growled again. Present needs first. There was a large industrial oven across the kitchen. The cupcakes would be on top. Yes, there they were: the squarish baking sheet poked right over the edge. Nicole must have baked them for Andrea. Andrea wouldn’t mind if she had a few. Andrea would probably _beg_ her to have a few. She grabbed the oven door, then hesitated. Andrea wouldn’t mind, but Nicole might.

            Oh well.

            But how to reach it? Lifting her arms above her head would be too risky; she might pop her shoulders out again. She’d have to wait at least a half hour to pull that kind of stunt. She couldn’t reach the rack, and probably shouldn’t use her hands for much at all. How else could she get it? Hmm…

            Valerie took a step toward the oven and slammed her forehead into it.

            _BANG._

She glanced up. The baking sheet hung an inch farther over the edge. There was also a nice, round dent in the front of the oven the size of her forehead. One more time. Nicole wouldn’t mind.

            _BANG._

            No, she _would_ mind. She just wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

            Served her right.

            _BANG. BANG._

            “ _Stop!_ ” snapped a voice like a whip, and before Valerie knew it her head snapped toward the office door. Her body knew that voice. It was still a soldier. Once a friend. It still obeyed that voice. Nicole’s voice.

            The forest was nice. Peaceful. Nicole wasn’t there. Without Nicole, Valerie didn’t have to obey. Didn’t have to remember. Three years she’d spent up in the mountains, and the moment she came down, who should show up? Dark olive skin, Greek features, petite figure. That was Nicole, but that wasn’t all of her. There was a lightness to her, as if her feet had to grip the ground beneath or she’d float away. She held a black pump shotgun, point down but ready, with the same lightness. In five years as her soldier and five years as her friend, Valerie had never seen her use it.

            With Valerie there, she hadn’t needed to.

            “Val, what are you doing up?” Her eyes widened. “What did you do to my oven?”

            Not meeting her eyes, Valerie gave a small nod up toward the cupcakes.

            “You’re hurt.”

            Valerie gave her a look. _Duh_.

            “And you’re…” Nicole glanced at Valerie, then the circular dent on the front of the oven. “Did you do that with your _face_?”

_Duh. Again._

            “You know what it took for us to get you to lay down?”

            Valerie nodded at the carnage on the kitchen floor. _Another duh for you._

            “Then why are you…no, of course you’re up. You’re always up.” She skipped forward and dropped the gun on the metal counter, _clang_. “Just sit down. I’ll get you your cupcakes.”

            Valerie stayed on her feet.

            “ _Sit_.”

            _No_. She flinched, but she wouldn’t sit. She wouldn’t even lean. All across her body, injuries flared pain. She ignored them, and they began to fade. Just like that time-

            _Valerie looked down. Her shirt was torn to shreds; the armored vest underneath it wasn’t doing much better. Bleeding in a dozen spots. Even where they didn’t break skin, the force of those bullets would leave her covered in welts. Three days to heal all that, at least. Ugh. In the doorway behind her, Nicole nodded. The world sharpened. Crystallized. Their crimson of the guards’ CrockerCorp uniforms bled into the air. Filled it. Filled her_. _They fumbled with their guns. Unarmed but for her hands, she stepped forward, and-_

            _NO._

No.

            Valerie breathed. She breathed. She wasn’t that person anymore. She didn’t have to be. She breathed. Just because Nicole was here didn’t mean she had to be the Soldier.

            “You’re not sitting.”

            “Don’t want to.” Her voice was beyond hoarse. It was grinding, gasping, like rocks had stuck in her throat. Given how her morning had gone, there might actually _be_ rocks in her throat.

            Concerned, Nicole raised her eyebrows. Her eyes were green, large, and looked _into_ you. Last time Valerie met that gaze… _no_. She looked down. She didn’t have to do it. That was the whole point of going into the mountains. She didn’t have to look.

            “What’s wrong, Val?”

            Looking meant remembering, and remembering meant being the Soldier again. It was still in her. The way she responded to Nicole, the wreck she’d made of the kitchen when she woke up. It was _there_. She couldn’t go back to that.

            But they were going to enter this game together. Like it or not, she wouldn’t be able to avoid Nicole. If she didn’t look now, then when?

            What if she could look and not remember?

            The weight of Nicole’s eyes pressed on her.

            She met them. “I don’t want to, okay?” That green gaze that she’d held so many times, before she’d…before… _no._

            _Breathe._ Don’t remember. Don’t be the Soldier. _Breathe._ Look outward. Don’t look in. Head steady, chin up. Hold that gaze. _Breathe._

            She held it.

            Nicole blinked.

            Then shook her head. She found a folding stool among the wreckage and fetched the cupcakes. Moving slowly, testing the ice, she stepped forward, placed the baking sheet on the counter beside Valerie. She climbed on top of it and sat down, then nudged the cupcakes forward, along with Valerie’s glasses in a case at the side. Valerie put them on. Seeing Nicole sitting on the counter in profile was odd. She’d always been petite, but had never seemed small.

            Still, the cupcakes were good. Very good. All twelve of them.

            “So,” said Nicole, brushing crumbs off the counter into her hand, “It’s been awhile.”

            Valerie chewed. There was still a cupcake and a half in her mouth, and she was going to enjoy it.

            Nicole drummed her fingers on her knee. “Um. How were the mountains?”

            Valerie swallowed most of the cupcake, but not all of it. _Gulp._

            “These were supposed to be for Andrea.”

            “Don fink shell miffum.”

            “I…what?”          

            _Gulp._ “You think she’ll want them back?”

            Nicole tried to frown. She really did give it a try, but a snicker broke its way through, then shifted to a solid giggle. “We’ve already dissected you once today.”

            “Yeah, took meteor rocks out of my gut.” Valerie hopped up and sat down on the counter. Her back twinged. “That interfere with your plan?”

            “Not at all! The hole’s already there.” Her eye caught that mischievous glint it used to, long ago. “We can just kind of…reach in, and…” Grinning, Nicole leaned over and lunged for Valerie’s stomach.

            Valerie’s hand shot out and caught Nicole on the shoulder. She stopped cold. Valerie’s own shoulder lit up with pain, and she winced. Right. She’d just un-dislocated that.

            Nicole looked like a kid who just heard her birthday had been canceled. She rubbed her shoulder, right where Valerie hit it. “I…” She trailed off.

            Valerie sucked some chocolate off her finger. It was bitter.

            Nicole tapped her dangling legs off the side of the counter. “Remember when we climbed the Simmons Building?” She spoke a bit too forcefully. “You could see all the way to Mt. Hood from up there. Luke and I took the stairs, but _you_ just-”

            Valerie slid off the countertop right past her and examined the wreck she’d made of the kitchen’s middle. The baking racks were ruined, some distorted, others folded in half. Pots dented, strainers collapsed. Nothing here worth salvaging.

            “What do you _want_?”

            Valerie didn’t face her. “Stop it.”

            “Val, you vanished! It’s been three years and I haven’t heard a word from you. I just want to know what-”

            Valerie whirled. “What I _want_? I spent three years in the mountains, away from you. What does that tell you about what I _want_?”

            “...what I can do to help.”                                       

            The way Nicole hung her head would have made Valerie cry, once. Now she knew it for the trap it was. She met Nicole’s eyes, held them for a moment. “ _Leave_.”

            “But we have to play this game, and-”

            “I know.” Valerie paced around the kitchen. It didn’t feel great, but at least her legs worked. “We’re pretty much stuck.”

            Atop the counter, Nicole tucked her knees against her chest. Her curly brown hair flopped down her face.

            Valerie sucked in a slow breath. The smell of chocolate, thick and heavy a few minutes ago, had grown stale.

            “What happened, Val?”

            Valerie felt sick. She gave Nicole a look. _Really?_

“I just…I miss you. We were friends! And then you introduced me to Andrea, and that…well.” She smiled, and the room lit up for an instant. “And she told me about SkaiaNet and their whole thing with CrockerCorp, which was great.”

            Valerie felt her hand gripping the corner of the oven. The metal bent beneath her fingers. No. This was not a good place for this discussion to go. Valerie had to get Nicole off topic, fast, before she mentioned…

            “I mean, I was running a bakery, I didn’t ever think it would ever have any sort of greater-”

            “Where’s my sister?”

            “Andrea?”

            “No, my other sister, the one SkaiaNet’s been raising in captivity.” She paused. “No wait, SkaiaNet might actually _do_ that. I don’t have another sister, do I?”

            Nicole paled. “I don’t _think_ so?”

            “Yeah, but there’s that kid. Melissa?”

            “Melanie. Poor girl.”

            “Yeah.” Valerie shook her head. “I shouldn’t joke.”

            They sat a moment in silence. Nicole broke it. “Andrea’s across town rerouting the signal for the game. Roger’s helping her up from Seattle.”

            “Seattle?”

            “ _You_ might have survived that meteor, but the transponder for Maple Valley sure didn’t. Anyway, we’ve got to get the signal from _somewhere_ , and Seattle was the next strongest one.”

            That plan seemed bad somehow. Valerie couldn’t quite piece together why.

            “But really, what happened?” Nicole hopped down and stepped toward Valerie. “Val. Why’d you leave?”

            No. _No._ Valerie stepped back. “Nicole. Stop.”

            “Things were going so well! We were _winning_! CrockerCorp’s profits were down-”

            “Remember…” _Breathe, Valerie_. Flashes of pain shot through her body. Her hand slammed against the corner of the oven. For support. And she breathed. She _did_ breathe.“Remember how I told you to leave?”

            “I’m here _now_. It’s been three years, Val. Just…what do you want from me?” She advanced. That light was back in her green, green eyes, the light that stared right through you. “Tell me. I can’t help unless you tell me!”

            “I want-” Valerie’s hand clenched, and the thick metal crumpled beneath her fingers. _I want my friend back_. Her hand…if she twisted it, pulled just right, she could tear off a long, sharp piece that would work as a-

            _NO._ Don’t think like that. Tell Nicole. She should know. She should. “I…” She forgot to breathe. _I don’t want to be a soldier._

            Her hand twitched. It would be so easy to tear the metal loose. She’d have a weapon.

            No. She wouldn’t do that. She _wouldn’t_.

            _I want the Nicole that never made me a soldier back_.

            But that’s not what she said when she met Nicole’s eyes.

            What she said was, “I want you to _go away_.”

 

            _15:09 Seattle, 18:09 New York, 23:09 Oxford, 4:39 Bangalore_


	17. of fate. The fire from (Frag. 16)

            “When you came here, you said somebody’s coming,” Martin said. He set a hot cup of tea on her placemat, then sat across from her. “Is it alright if I ask who?”

            In the kitchen chair, Maggie North hugged her knees to her chest. The chair was much too big for her, and the gesture made the already-small girl seem not just tiny, but _dense_ , as if too much person had been stuffed in too small a space.

            Maggie North.

            Martin had taught fencing a long time, but he’d always tried to be more than just a teacher _._ Maria thought it was some unfulfilled fatherly instinct. He would meet students after class, learn about them, get to know them, their families. The parents paid for his lessons, but the time afterward, when students would linger and chat and help him clean up, had always seemed more important. It would stick with them more than a lesson in swordplay. He’d gotten to know almost every one.

            But Maggie North was a mystery.

            She had never missed a lesson. She arrived on the dot at the start and left just as promptly, brushing off anyone between her and the door. In class she talked near constantly, joked with the other students, played pranks, but said nothing of any real substance. Some of the other kids went to school with her, but it seemed she was just as evasive there.

            Martin glanced at Maggie. It had been at least a minute since he’d handed her that tea, and she’d done nothing but stare at it, silent as the night outside. Martin smiled. “It’s not poison, you know.”

            “How’d y’know?” Maggie mumbled.

            Martin smiled harder. He had a good smile, practiced over years of teaching. “Brewed it myself, right in that teapot.” He nodded toward the counter.

            Maggie gave an odd, slanted smile. “Could be lying.”

            “Then why are you holding it?”

            Maggie glanced at her hands, noticing that they were both gripped tight around her teacup. She glanced out the window. “Warm.”

            This wasn’t working, and he didn’t have time for the girl to open up on her own. World ending and such. Maybe he could help her. “I’m a terrible liar,” said Martin. “I have a sort of tell – I scratch my ear, like this…” He scratched his ear. “…and I fall out of my chair, like this.”

            And with that, Martin leaned backward and tipped himself right onto the floor.     Maggie made a noise between a laugh and a shriek. She shot up from her seat, bumping the table along the way and sending her teacup crashing to the floor. “Sir? Er…Mr. Nunsworth?” She almost slipped on the puddle of tea as she scrambled around the table. “What should I call…um…” She half-tumbled, half-knelt down. “…are you okay?”

            Martin groaned. The table loomed above him. There was almost certainly something out of place in his hip. “I’m fine.” He reached out a hand. “Help me up?”

            Maggie glanced about before she seemed to realize he’d been talking to her rather than somebody else in the room. “Um. Okay.” She extended her hand, and Martin took it.

            “Next time I get the idea to fall over,” said Martin, once he was back on his feet, “remind me it’s an awful idea.”

            Maggie smiled for a moment. “Yes…” She frowned. “Uh…sir.”

            “Martin. Please.”

            “Well…” She scrambled to pick up his chair off the floor. “I just…your teacup, I…”

            “It’s alright.” Martin shrugged and motioned for her to sit down at the table. She took the chair next to him. “So. If you don’t mind my asking…who’s coming?”

            “Remember class last week?”

            “Yes. You skipped out the back before I could get your help putting away the masks, as I recall.”

            “No, before that.” She looked up to the ceiling and squinted her eyes before continuing. “We’re running point work, Nat and me, right?”

            “Of course. Yours was solid today, I might add.”

            Maggie shrunk, but she also smiled. “Anyway, we get to talking, you know, _Doctor Who_ on the night before and all. They’ve been airing reruns like mad, you know, a new special’s out next week?”

            “ ‘Planet of the Dead’, isn’t it called? ‘The Next Doctor’ was a joy, wasn’t it?” It was a pity it would end up as the finale for the entire show.

            Maggie seemed to almost float out of her seat. “I _know_! With the balloon, and…I’m just so sad Ten’s got to go, you know?”

            “It is sad,” said Martin, more to himself. “Who do you think they’ll…” Martin’s eyes flicked down to his watch. Something was off about the way she was responding, something he _knew_ about her. Maggie was not quick – most of her classmates could dance rings around her in a bout – but that didn’t keep her near as far behind as it ought. She would stay still as a stone, blade in hand, for minutes at a time, waiting for her opponent to move first, never acting, only reacting. Her parries were slow but nearly precognizant, reaching up to the other blade and batting it languidly out of the way.

            All this banter was a diversion. _Ah._ “Maggie?”

            “Yeah. I was just thinking, it’s a shame Tennant’s going to-”

            “Who’s coming?” said Martin, voice flat.

            “How should I know? It’s not like they’ve announced the next-”

            Martin gave her a measured, steady look, the same one he gave those who acted out in class. “Who’s coming _here_?”

            “-Doctor…yet.” A guilty look flashed across her face. It lasted just a moment, but it was _there_. “That tea was wonderful, by the way,” she said, a little too fast.

            “Maggie.”

            “Really it was, can I have some more tea?” she continued, seeming to rise up above her seat.

            “Maggie.”

            “Please?”

            “ _Maggie_.”

            She flinched, then stared at Martin for a moment, as if to remind herself who he was. Then she sank down, glancing away. A long moment passed before she mumbled something.

            “Hmm?”

            “Parents,”Maggie whispered. “That’s who’s coming.” She stopped. “Uh. I…uh…”

            Martin nodded for her to continue.

            “I stabbed my mam,” she whispered.

            Martin’s mouth hung open. After a few long seconds, he managed to close it and slide his chair backward.

            “L-let me fix you that tea,” he said, standing up.

 

            –

 

            A name and a Reading area code glowed upon the screen of Maria’s mobile, and her thumb rested idly upon the keypad. She should call. _No_. It wouldn’t help. Above, the ceiling fan turned. Its four blades spun around and around, their dull thrumming and the jangling of the tiny chain that hung from them a subtle backdrop to every sound in the rom. One of the blades was a touch loose, and with each fourth pass of a blade it gave a rattling sound. It was a constant, something that could be predicted, relied upon. But it _wasn’t_. It wasn’t inevitable. Should she want to stand up, pull the chain, and turn the fan off, nothing might stop her. The fan would hum and jingle slower and slower until finally it hummed and jingled no more: her choice, made manifest in the silence of a dangling chain.

            The name glowed on the screen. She really should call.

            Maria locked the mobile and put it in her pocket.

            The boy and a girl sitting on the bed across from her made not a sound. Above, the four blades continued to whirl about the lamp. Both children were tense and coiled in precisely the same manner; should she view their silhouettes alone, Maria might mistake them for a pair of synchronized dancers. “Hi, I’m–” they both said at once, then paused. Each glanced to the other. An understanding passed between them, and the girl seemed to rise in stature over her brother. Tall and broad-shouldered, it was hard to believe she was the younger of the two, even with those large, round spectacles. “I’m Grace. Hey?”

            The mobile felt like a brick in her pocket. It would do no good to call, not now. The fan whirled on the ceiling: _Ding. Ding. Ding._ It was constant. Not unstoppable.

            The boy at Grace’s side raised his hand. “I’m Justin. I’m-”

            “What is fate?” Maria found herself asking.

            “It’s just what’s gonna happen, isn’t it?” said Justin, inching forward while still seated. The boy had a thick Scottish accent and looked close to fifteen in his school uniform. The thin lip of fuzz he wore didn’t quite achieve the title _moustache_ , though it aspired. His hair was red, the exact same color of Catherine’s. He seemed almost to bounce in his seat, coiled in anticipation for something. Fortunately, he didn’t actually bounce. The guest bed creaked dreadfully.

            “Did you even pay attention to _Medea_?” said Grace.

            “Of course! They all talk about how your fate can’t change, no matter how hard you-ow!”

            Grace gave him a sharp cuff on the shoulder. “Doesn’t. Mean. _Snot_.”

            Maria glanced up. Her mobile felt warm in her pocket. But no. It wouldn’t do any good. It _couldn’t_.

            Justin shoved his sister. “How not?” She fell sideways onto the bed and bounced right back up.

            “We don’t know what it is yet,” said Grace, as if this explained everything, and as if her brother hadn’t just pushed her over.

            “So?”

            Maria’s mobile had lodged uncomfortably between her leg and the arm of the chair. Useless thing. She shifted it about until she was comfortable. It occurred to her that this girl Grace was awfully savvy about the workings of fate for a child. Had she been Maria’s age, SkaiaNet might have seen fit to employ her. Of course, had she been Maria’s age, she wouldn’t be here, and her chances of surviving would be absolutely nil, much like everybody else Maria knew. That much was certain. That much was true. It was.

            Truth was comforting. Certainty was comforting.

            “ _So_ ,” continued Grace, pronouncing _so_ much as most people might pronounce _moron_. “Why do you think Tiresias and Cassandra are in so many of those Greek things?

            “Well, they see the future, right? It gives the whole thing a sense of inevitability. Like, there’s…hmm.” Justin ran a hand through his hair. “There’s this irony, right? The characters are pushing for it to turn out one way, but the people watching know the story already, and nothing ever end up different from how it turns out. They know, but they can’t do anything about it.”

            “Exactly. Fate only matters if you can see the future,” said Grace, much like a schoolteacher. “If you can’t see it, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t really exist.”

            Maria stared at her phone. Calling her wouldn’t change anything, that much was clear. But even if it didn’t change anything, it might…it might matter. It might matter anyway. That was possible, wasn’t it? There was no way to be certain it wouldn’t matter.

            She shivered.

            And even if it _didn’t_ matter to her, it might matter to Christine.

            The mobile seemed to burn a hole in her leg. She did not move it.

            Grace was still speaking, and Maria listened. “…okay, say fate is real, but you don’t know what’s gonna happen. What do you do?”

            “I guess…just…do things? And they all turn out however they were going to turn out.”

            “And if it’s not?”

            Maria shivered.

            “Well that’s easy, then you just…” As he spoke, Justin raised a finger, which hovered in midair as his words petered out. “…do things.”

            “And even if it’s real, you end up making the same choices you would have if it weren’t.”

            “Um. Yeah.”

            _Choices._

            This was all…this was wrong. Something about it had to be wrong.

            “Which _means_ ,” continued Grace, “it doesn’t really matter. Because we can’t see it.”

            _I have seen proof that fate exists_.

            Maria _had_ seen it. She’d seen proof that fate existed. The tablet. She’d _held_ it, carried it, studied it.

            _And we are not its chosen_.

            But then…Martin had just done the impossible. I. He’d merely proven her own understanding of the impossible – of fate – inadequate. No, of course it was inadequate. It was always going to be inadequate, but he’d proven she’d _misinterpreted_ something. Something she’d thought impossible was possible. She’d _misinterpreted_. After twenty years of study, might she still have missed something else? Might she have misinterpreted the tablet itself?

            It was…discomforting.

            Justin leaned forward “Um-”

            “Mrs. Nunsworth-” said Grace.

            “Did you say something?” they said in chorus.

            Drat. She was doing it again. “Just… _do things_ ,” she found herself saying.

            “What?”

            “I said that, remember…”

            Her mobile was in her hand, and Christine’s number glowed bright on it. She didn’t know if it would matter. But she couldn’t just sit and wait for the world to end. She stood up.

            _Do things_.

            Maria stood up. She breathed in, and breathed out. Then she pressed _send_.

            The phone rung.

            It rung two times. She should pick up now.

            _Three_. She always picked up by the third ring.

            _Four_. Maria clutched the mobile tight, afraid she’d drop it.

            Maria stared at that name, glowing on the screen. Her vision blurred. Oh. Tears. Her hand moved toward _end call_.

            “This is Christine.”

            Maria very nearly dropped her mobile.

 

_15:16 Seattle, 18:16 New York, 23:16 Oxford, 4:46 Bangalore_


	18. the sky is not (Frag. 17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to scythian-dreamer for edits!

            She almost had it. Leaning on the overhanging lip of the roof, Andrea steadied the ladder beneath her. She stretched her wrench up toward the loose nut in the radio dish built into the side of her house, fastened the wrench around it, and…

            Damn. It popped off and fell to the ground below. Third time straight.

            Andrea picked up her rag and wiped the grease from her forearms. It didn’t get it all, so she wiped again, and again, then gave up and tossed the rag to the ground, resisting the urge to look down after it. Ugh. She used to deal with this kind of tech every day at SkaiaNet, and six years later she still hated it just as much. It took some modifications, but nearly anything capable of receiving a signal could carry the Box code. The science of it wasn’t the problem, nor the grease or the tools. It was the _height_. Being ten feet up wasn’t so bad, as long as she held onto the roof like it was Nicole on a hot summer night. But the crap Elaine had Roger doing in Seattle, dangling from a fifty foot tower at the top of a skyscraper? Sure, she might be more _qualified_ than him, but…nope. Nope, nope, nope.

            Still, that nut wasn’t going to pick itself up. Wrapping her hands around the ladder’s side rail, she clambered down one rung at a time. Three to go…two…

 _“You remind me of the babe,”_ sang a muffled David Bowie from her pocket.

Andrea’s hand snapped down to her pocket to grab her phone, but without a hand on the ladder she fumbled, lost her balance, and fell back into the open space, down, down…

            She landed on her bottom with a _thud_. Of course. She’d only been four feet up. Her back would probably remind her of it later. Sure, the Egbert family toughness was a very real factor, but it was no replacement for a good chiropractor.

 _“The babe with the power…”_ Her phone was still ringing. She loved Bowie, but there was a time and a place. With a twisting motion, she dug it out of her pocket.

“Val?” she guessed.

            “Uh. Hi. Hi!” Val’s voice was shaky. “Andrea!”

            Andrea leaned forward, gripping the phone. “Hey,” she said in her best Valerie-calming voice. “What’s up?” The Valerie-calming voice was more Nicole’s specialty, bless her. Even after – maybe even _because_ – she’d grown up with Val, she’d never been good at it. Whatever was going on had to be something big, or Nicole would have handled it. But he couldn’t say that because this was her sister, this was _Val_ , and Val plus panic equaled ruined buildings.

            “I need a…” Val paused. “Um…this is going to sound weird, but…”

            “Yeah?”                        

            “No, really. This will sound really weird, just tell me you won’t-”

            Andrea gripped her phone tighter. “Val. What do you need?”

            Val swallowed so hard Andrea could hear it over the phone. “Can you pick me up?” She took a sharp breath. “I-I know I’m supposed to be with…with your wife, but I really need you to-”

            “I’ll get you.”

            Andrea could practically hear her sister gape.

            “See you soon, sis.”

            “Love you,” Val whispered.

            “You too. Tell Nicole I’m on my-”

            Val had hung up.

            Time to go. Andrea tried standing up, then fell back down halfway; her brain too busy with some other complex process to focus on unimportant things like physical actions.

Andrea knew her own mind better than most people. That was a guess, of course, but it was a good one. She had charted its pathways, plumbed the patterns of its logic, measured the influence of impulse and emotion on functions both mental and physical. Zoning out was her brain’s way of telling her it was processing something, and failing to stand up was its way of telling her the thing it was processing would need her immediate attention. It was a complex problem – no, in fact, it wasn’t. It was a binary choice, a simple as a problem can be, made complex by her own feelings. She could fix the radio tower, a pressing task with fatal consequences for failure, or pick up her sister, who was more than able to fend for herself. There was a clear rational choice. For Elaine Timbal, it wouldn’t have seemed like a choice at all. At one time, it wouldn’t have for Andrea either.

            It still didn’t. This was a decision she’d made the moment she got off the phone.

            No. She made it the moment she picked up the phone.

            No, that wasn’t right either. She made this choice unknowingly the day she walked into the hospital room and saw that wailing newborn with the wispy red hair. Ever since she met her sister. And she’d made it knowingly for the first time six years ago, the day she watched her sister drive off into mountains.

            Just after the one time she had made a different choice.

            Andrea sat up. She picked up her purse and drew her car keys. She might never understand her sister. She might never _really_ know why Valerie left SkaiaNet and drove off into the mountains. But she could – she would – she had _chosen_ to, at such a deep level it felt less a choice than breathing – protect her.

            She got up and jumped in the car, then froze just before touching the gas. She might be abandoning her duty at fatal risk for everyone, but that didn’t mean she had to be stupid about it. Pulling the car back out of the driveway with one hand, she dialed a number into her phone.

            “Andrea,” shouted Roger on the other end, barely audible over the howling wind on his end.

            “Hey. We’ve got…”

           

            –               

           

            “…a problem.”    

            “Um. Okay?” Dangling from a rope and harness, Roger looked up and down the radio tower. There were a _few_ problems, as far as he could tell. First was the wind. It chilled him through his hoodie and howled in his ears so he couldn’t hear anything less than a small bullhorn or feel anything less than a large pin, and even worse, every few minutes it would gust and he’d swing around the tower like a tetherball. Second was the tower itself, a squat jumble of boxes and dishes and wires that he only came close to barely understanding through trial and error and a lot of loud swearing. Oh, he _could_ have called Elaine, sure, but he’d only been here…how long _had_ he been here? He checked his watch. An hour: twice what Elaine said it would take. At least he was almost done. He wasn’t going to endure another moment of Dr. Timbal for something as petty as a radio tower. A radio tower that had to be up pretty shortly or they were all dead – but he had time. At least it was pretty today. From up here, he could see across Puget Sound all the way to the Olympic Mountains sixty miles-

            “…a problem, are you _listening?_ ” intruded Andrea’s voice.

“Oh! Sorry, it’s…uh. Loud up here!” Roger made sure to shout so Andrea knew he couldn’t hear her, and that he wasn’t doing something silly like getting lost in thoughts his own problems. Andrea had to be talking about another problem, because of _course_ there was another problem. “What’s up?”

            He heard her breathe out, then in. It must have been loud, otherwise the wind would have carried it away. “I need to pick up Val.”

            Roger’s mind spun through a list of possible things that might have happened to her, each less probable than the last. “Tell me she’s okay.”

            “She should be fine. I just want to be sure.”

            “Wh-where was she? What’s going on?”

            “She just said she needed a pickup. She’s…” Andrea paused, as if realizing something. When she continued, she was much quieter, and whatever she said was lost in the wind.

            “Sorry?”

            “She _was_ with Nicole.”

            “Um. She didn’t…um…go anywhere?”

            “She didn’t say.”

            “So get Nicole to find her!” said Roger.

            Andrea might have mumbled something, but Roger couldn’t hear.

            “Look, I’m…uh. A bit busy,” said Roger. “I don’t know how Elaine thought a fucking half hour would be enough-”

            “Oh.” She gave a tense sigh. “Shit. I should have seen this coming.”

            Roger narrowed his eyes against the wind. Definitely against the wind, instead of against any particular storm of bullshit. “You…mind explaining why that is?”

            “Elaine’s used to dealing with specialists at the top of their field. It’s not fair to expect-”

            “-the little backwood radio operator to be able to handle it, it’s just out of his league!”

            Andrea paused, then said something that sounded like “Sorry.”

            Roger nodded. Speaking of the radio tower, he should be working on that, not staring across Puget Sound like some tourist on the Space Needle. He spun himself around and flipped open another circuit box.

            “Keep in mind,” continued Andrea, “a lot of us are used to dealing with people who’ve been preparing ten years for this. You forget what ordinary people can and can’t do, living like that. So, um…try not to take what people say too personally.”

            “Unless it’s meant personally,” said Roger, grabbing two wires from the tangle inside the box.

            “Yeah,” said Andrea.

            “Or it’s terrible.”

            “Or it’s terrible.” Her voice sounded like a smile.

            “Yeah.” Roger tilted his head and held the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could use both hands, then started splicing the two wires. “Hey. I’m almost done here, but we’ve only got…um…” He checked his watch. “An hour? Before-”

            “Yeah, that’s why I called. If I’m picking up Val, I can’t exactly work on…”

            “…oh.” said Roger. “Ohhhhhh. So you’ll…uh…did I mention I’m only _almost_ done with the tower up here?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And it’s a…” He paused, pinching the two wires together. “A 50-minute drive down to Maple Valley once I’m done.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And we only have-”

            “-an hour. I know.” Andrea paused, then continued, with finality: “I’m getting Val.”

            “Of course.”

            The wind whistled between Roger’s ear and the phone as Andrea seemed to grasp for the right words. “Good,” she said.

            Roger wound the wires together, sealing the splice. The box gave a soft hum. “Did you expect me to fight you on this?”

            “Three hours ago, yes.”

            “No! You gotta protect Val! I’m not gonna disagree with you on that!”

 “But you’d have wasted ten minutes arguing the point anyway.”

            “No! I wouldn’t…have…argued…” He trailed off as he realized what he was saying. “Look. Go take care of her.” He shut the circuit box. “I’m just trying to think of what comes after…hold on a sec.” There was one more thing to do here. He dropped his phone into his pocket and climbed the rickety ladder of metal spikes along the outside of the tower, attaching his rope every few feet. What _would_ they do? The meteors were due in an hour, ready or not. He wouldn’t be able to get down to Maple Valley in time to prep the receiver there, and if Andrea was heading to Tacoma, she wouldn’t either. He clipped himself to the top of the radio tower, just below a large radio dish, and returned the phone to his ear. “It’s just…I don’t see how we can do this. We need someone on the Maple Valley tower-”

            “Or we’re stuck dodging meteors.” She made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “So…we need help.”

            The sound Roger made was a bit closer to a groan than a sigh. He knew as well as she did who that “help” would be. He gripped the bottom lip of the radio dish and had started wresting it downward when he froze. “Wait wait wait! Wasn’t Nicole with Val? Can’t she just…drive over to your place, and you can keep working on your tower, and-”

            “Val asked me pick her up.”

            Roger blinked. “Did she and your wife have some kind of-”

            “Look, Val’s lived in the forest for awhile, and she was a bit banged up-“

            “ _Banged up_ ,” Roger echoed, a picture of Val on fire, half frozen, and drowned leaping into his mind.

            “Banged up,” said Andrea, as if being set on fire, half frozen, and drowned was a small thing. “Maybe she’s just having trouble adjusting.”

            “Maybe.” She had a point. A surprise trip back to civilization was a big change, even if it weren’t by way of a critical injury and a helicopter ride, and even _if_ it weren’t on the day the world was supposed to end. Still, something about _something_ didn’t feel right. Roger shook his head. First things first. He wrenched the dish downward with a grunt.

            “Point is,” Andrea said, “we need a hand.” If wincing made a sound, that was what her voice sounded like. “And _someone_ ’s got to talk to her.”

“ _Ohhhhh_ no. No, no, I-I’ve been doing it all day-”

            “And a fine job you’ve been doing.”

            “Thanks.” Wait, that wasn’t right. “I mean, no, it’s your turn!”

            “Roger,” said Andrea, serious. “Did you know using your phone while driving is illegal in Washington State?”

            “Sure, it’s a secondary offense, what does that have to do with-”

“Have fun talking to Elaine!”

Her engine revved.

            Then she hung up.

            Fucking hell.

            Now he was going to have to explain why he wasn’t done with the tower, and how Nicole and Valerie were hanging out at some bakery in Tacoma, and how Andrea had run off on a noble errand that would probably result in everyone’s death. He was going to pitch his phone. It would fall straight down and shatter on the rooftop below. He was going to do it. No, even better, he was going to pitch it over the side of the building and not have to see it ever again, and all of this meteor business was going to turn out to be some kind of elaborate prank Val had pulled, and he’d go to sleep and tomorrow he’d be back at the radio station wearing fuzzy socks and reading maps and making puns on official radio channels.

            He glanced at his phone. A number glowed on the screen. 212-613-1481. Elaine’s number. He must have dialed it unconsciously.

            Apocalyptic conspiracies weren’t the kind of things to go away just because you hid from them.

            “Fucking _hell_.” He took a swig of water from his Nalgene bottle. Then he pressed _send_.

           

            –         

           

            There were too many people in Melanie’s house.

            Okay, it wasn’t a _house_ , it was an apartment, and the actual number of people in it was…not enormous. Certainly, there were more at any of Mom’s “dinner parties”. Or – she shuddered at the thought – at Dad’s. There was Dad himself. He was innocuous enough, and both the pizza man Art and his wife – ex-wife? – Maya seemed downright pleasant. Their kids were noisy, but then, most kids were. But the fact that none of the other adults were doing a thing to distract Mom from _her_ , plus the fact that she’d somehow been roped into being Mom’s personal secretary for the apocalypse, meant that Mom counted for at least twenty people just by herself. So was more than fair to say there were too many people in this house.

            Apartment.

            Also, Mom’s phone was ringing. Again. Melanie was already holding it, and the chance to see Mom just a bit more frazzled wasn’t worth the stress of dealing with her afterward, Melanie answered.

            “Hey,” said the nasal voice on the other end. She knew that voice. It belonged to that one radio operator she’d talked to before. “We have a problem.”

           

_15:24 Seattle, 18:24 New York, 23:24 Oxford, 4:54 Bangalore_

           

 

 

 


End file.
